


I've Got Soul But I'm Not a Soldier

by darthsydious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Therapy, mention of rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29135727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthsydious/pseuds/darthsydious
Summary: Molly Hooper is kidnapped by Moran, but she escapes, proving there's more to her than what even she believes. But will she survive the after-affects of the trauma?
Relationships: Warstan - Relationship, sherlolly
Comments: 33
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is reference to rape, as well as discussion of murder. Nothing is graphically depicted, ever. But I do know that even just mentioning it can be triggering, so please keep that in mind while reading this fic. There are also therapy sessions, and these are done in a positive light, showing the process of working through this sort of trauma.

Deep breath.

Count to three.

Release breath.

_“I am not stupid.”_

Another breath.

_“I can get out of this.”_

The air was biting cold and her shoes were soggy. The dull ache in her side reminded her she needed to find an open road to flag down someone, anyone. At least she wasn’t in the bunker anymore.

Molly stumbled through the open field, keeping her head low. She tried to remember how John acted in these situations. Had he been in these situations? In the army probably, maybe even on a case with Sherlock. It was a first for her, and she was anything but prepared. One doesn’t exactly plan on being kidnapped from work. It’s the sort of thing you see on television and think “That’s awful,” and then make a half-mental plan for in case it happens.

She should have known that whole Moriarty message was a fake-out. She should have known she’d be a target for Moran, the former criminal master-mind’s trigger man.

Breathless, she sank to her knees. Trying to keep up her current pace was exhausting. She was dehydrated and weak from lack of food. Almost three weeks she’d been in that abandoned bunker.

Her left hand was cramped and numb from holding her side. She didn’t dare move it, too worried about losing blood. She wasn’t sure how much she’d lost. On the windswept valley she sat, trying desperately to remember what exactly had gone on in Moran’s hideaway. She recalled how she’d been brought there: taken from work, he’d been hiding in one of the drawers in the morgue. Gagged and bound, he brought her here, where exactly, she wasn’t sure. Just outside of London? Scotland? She had no idea. She was fairly certain they were still in England. But how had she gotten out? After the first two weeks, Moran had untied her, for what, she didn’t know, but she saw her chance and took it.

She rubbed her forehead, groaning.

_Moran bent close to untie her legs, and she reached forward, grasping something on his hip. It caught the light of the one window in the corner and then-_

Molly blinked, her eyes were blurry, stinging, she was pretty sure they were swollen. She spat on the ground, realizing she tasted vomit. Had she thrown up? Looking behind her, she could barely see the bunker entrance; she’d left the door open. She must have knocked Moran out. Panic seized her. He could come to at any moment! Stumbling to her feet, still clutching her side, she ran.

She tripped through the tall grass, trying to figure out where to go. There had to be a road, a farm, anything nearby. She didn’t dare yell, Moran might hear. But if someone were nearby, they could get help. Her throat was raw, more terrible memories flashing, she tried not to dwell on them.

“Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out,” she croaked, a mantra she’d been repeating since she’d been dragged into that bunker.

* * *

Lights in the distance made her stop. Her heart leapt, and she let out a sob, half joy, half relief. Staggering forward, she waved her free arm, it hurt to call out, but she _had_ to get them to see her, they _must_ see her! The voices shouted back, and more lights were directed at her. Wearily, she sank to her knees, unable to go further. The pounding feet drew closer, slowing to a stop. A few ran past her, heading toward the bunker. They seemed to know where they were going, so Molly stayed put. Someone held her upright, the sudden memory of Moran grabbing her before he slammed his forehead into hers made her reel back, struggling to get free.

“Molly, Molly, it’s me, it’s John,” the voice soothed. She gasped, too overcome to speak she began to sob. It was more than she had ever hoped for. These were not strangers! Where John Watson was, Sherlock would not be far off. She was better than found, she was safe. “It’s alright,” John was speaking and she felt herself fall forward. He caught her, very carefully laying her flat on her back. “Ambulance is nearby, we’ll have you patched up in no time. Sherlock is in the bunker, he’s got Mycroft’s men with him,”

“I wish I could see you all,” she managed through her tears.

“Cripes you can’t see,” he murmured. “Your eyes are almost swollen shut, what did he do to you?” John pulled out his pocket-torch, shining it in her face. She could barely make out the light, but she knew it was there, much to his relief.

“Mm bleeding, John, don’t know from what, can’t remember,”

“You walked all this way-“ he began, shock evident in his voice. The EMTs arrived, setting the stretcher down beside Molly and carefully lifted her onto it, strapping her on. John spoke to her all the while, telling her exactly what they were doing. Whatever she’d gone through, she needed someone to be her eyes for now, so she wouldn’t panic.

“John,” Sherlock was calling, making his way through the grass. Mycroft stood by the bunker, speaking to the men surrounding him. “Here,” he held out his phone and John took it, studying the screen.

“Moran?”

“Mm,” Sherlock quirked a brow. “You’d best ride with her, I’d rather not leave the life of my pathologist in the hands of EMTs.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll follow shortly, there’s work to be done here, won’t take long.”

“Right,” John nodded and jogged over to the ambulance, jumping in the back. Once secure he knocked on the glass and the engine started, pulling back onto the road. Through the rear-windows, he watched Sherlock enter the bunker, Mycroft extinguished his cigarette and followed shortly. It wasn’t until they were nearly to St. Barts that John realized Sherlock smelled of cigarette smoke as well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Break-down of murder, reference to torture, ect.

**St. Barts**

“She’s pretty rough right now,” John said quietly. Mary squeezed his hand. She didn’t know if she was grateful or not she was on maternity leave. Being eight months pregnant, both John and Sherlock were adamant that Mary stay put. Now though, Molly was safely returned and Mary could do something to help. “Just…”

“I’ve seen victims before, John,”

“I know, but it’s different when it’s someone you care about.” Mary was quiet then, looking at her husband. He didn’t say any more, only opening the door for her.

Rounding the corner, Mary stopped where she was for only a moment. She hadn’t thought it would be like this. She’d seen plenty of victims lying in hospital beds, she’d even put a few there, including Sherlock. This was different though. It was so much worse.

“What…um…” she blinked quickly, sniffing. “How did you find her?”

“He untied her, for whatever reason, we still don’t know, but she saw her chance and took it. He had a knife on him so she grabbed that. Stabbed him three times, then made her getaway; he shot her on her way out. We retrieved the bullet, he was weak, so he wasn’t aiming properly. He did a pretty number on her though while she was there,” Mary found herself startled by the business-like attitude in his tone, but she realized it was his way of dealing with the trauma himself. John moved to the x-ray screen, flipping the switch. “Three broken ribs, sprains in both her wrists, broken ankle, fractured knee, damage to her right cornea, bad enough to scar but we can’t say yet, contusions, I lost count after eighty-three,” he shut the light off on the screen, turning back to Mary. He looked haggard. “Both shoulders were out of joint, I set them as soon as I could, and there were bruises under her arms, like she’d been in a harness,”

“What about Moran?” Mary asked quietly.

“Dead,” they both turned to see Sherlock in the doorway, hands in his pockets. “Whatever happens to Molly, we can at least be certain that Moran died at his victim’s hands.”

“She killed him?” Mary asked.

“John told you she stabbed him three times, all fatal. Where she found the strength to plunge a knife repeatedly into him, I can’t say.”

“Can’t say as she wasn’t justified,” Mary shrugged.

“Knowing Molly, she understood he was a powerful man, her blows couldn’t merely be enough to defend herself to get away, Moran would go after her if she only wounded him,” Sherlock said.

“Or he did something bad enough to move her to stab him repeatedly,” Mary added.

Now that Molly was safe at the hospital, Mycroft’s team of doctors took over so that John could rest. Sherlock kept vigil, sitting at Molly’s bedside reading aloud everything he could get his hands on. He read Molly her medical chart, the contents of the bag of saline, all of the warning labels on the machines she was hooked up to, the London Times and the ‘how to wash’ tag on the hospital blanket. That kept him occupied for almost the whole morning until Mary returned with a care-basket and several books.

“We’re tucked away pretty well,” Mary commented, looking around the room. Carefully removing the old hospital blanket, she spread the freshly washed quilt from Molly’s house over the pathologist. Mary knelt, and to Sherlock’s surprise, lifted a cat-carrier up to the bed, opening the hatch. Toby, seeing his mistress, let out a yowl before purring as he stepped across the bed, curling at his mistress’ side.

“You brought him?” he asked.

“Cats are good for the healing process; I thought Molly might like a friend nearby, besides, who’s going to yell? Mycroft’s in charge of this whole affair,” she gestured to the private room. Sherlock, for once, was not ashamed to say he was pleased with his brother’s pull. Molly had her own room, the very best of doctors and several private nurses to look after her. “Has she woken up at all?”

“Not yet,”

“Poor thing,” Mary sighed, taking the couch.

“It’s unlikely she slept, considering the environment she was in,” Sherlock said.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Seven days,” he replied evenly. Mary got to her feet,

“Come on,” she reached for his hand, tugging him over. “Lie down, I brought an extra blanket, it wouldn’t hurt you get some rest.”

“But-“

“She’s not going anywhere, I’ll be right here; if she wakes up I’ll let you know.”

Stretched out on the narrow sofa, Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin, shutting his eyes, he entered his mind palace.

* * *

_New door adjacent to Molly’s rooms._

_Status: temporary_

_Contents: bunker, one body (Sebastian Moran), one half-suspended harness, one cudgel, two sets of chains (ten meters total), one new tool box (receipt under handle, recently purchased, use, unknown, probably not for fixing things), two 9 mm. handguns with silencers, one fixed blade combat knife, standard size._

_The Body:_

_Sebastian Moran_

_Status: deceased (decidedly)_

_Three stab wounds, two to the left lung, one piercing the gut._

_Sherlock walked around the harness, studying it. A few strands of light brown hair were caught at top of the harness, where the strap went across her back. The buckles were smeared with fingerprints of blood. Moran had used his bare hands to beat her, and didn’t bother to wear gloves. Sloppy for a master assassin. Or he wanted to be caught._

_“How did you do it?” Sherlock murmured. Molly stepped into the room, assessing the area.  
“You tell me,” she answered. He paced the room, studying the body, the knife, and the chains. _

_“Moran untied you, for what, I don’t know, probably to move you to a new location. First he lowered you from the harness, using the chains attached. Then, keeping your hands tied, removed the zip-ties from your legs. While he was unhooking the harness, you leaned forward and slipped the blade from his hip. You stabbed him first in the gut, it’s nearest. It takes more effort, but he’s taken off-guard. You’re running on adrenaline and tackle him, your wrists are already sprained, but something moves you to use the knife twice more, this time into his left lung. The blows are intended, for whatever reason, you wanted to hurt him. The knife is buried to the hilt once, the second time almost halfway. The blood-loss is enough to kill him. You remove the knife, throwing it to the ground and you stumble for the door, breaking the ties around your wrists finally. Your strength is already waning, but he is weak as well. He manages one final shot and misses his intended target, hitting far below your heart, just above your hip.” He stood from kneeling by the body, turning to face Molly. She folds her hands before her. “Is that how it happened?” he asked._

_“You tell me,” she answers again._

_“I need you to confirm it.”_

_“Aren’t you sure?” she asked. He frowned, almost insulted._

_“Of course I am!”_

_“Then what do you need me for?”_

_“I- don’t know…” he fumbled with words. “You’ve always been on my side, at my side, I’ve…always needed you.”_

_“Then solve the case. Why did Moran kidnap me? I’m not important.”_

_“Yes you are,” his answer was immediate. “You have always been important, you’ve always counted. Just not to them. The one they underestimated. Moran was angry that someone so supposedly simple was the one who slipped beneath the cracks. You’re the reason I’m alive. Once he knew that, he knew you mattered. He took you because he wanted to get back at me.”_

_“Or maybe he wanted to get back at me,” Molly said. Sherlock quirked a brow. “He knew I dated Jim. Perhaps he saw something in me that Jim didn’t. Master Assassins have that gift you know, seeing inner strengths in their enemies. Moriarty was psychotic, he saw only the exterior of me, the silly pathologist who can’t get a date to save her life. I was unnecessary. Moran must have warned Moriarty, but he wouldn’t listen. So he took me, for revenge.”_

_“Kill two birds with one stone. He was hoping to lure me to you,” Sherlock answered slowly. “He didn’t count on you escaping,” Sherlock realized. He walked past her, out to the hallway of the bunker, leading to the outdoors. “You never willfully harmed anyone until today,” he said, half to himself. “You realized what you’d done, even if he was a bad man, vomited, mostly water, sparse at that, he only gave you enough to keep you alive. Afterwards you stumbled forward ten or twelve meters, rested, and then headed for the road before we found you.” He turned round, facing her. She stood in the doorway of the bunker, holding herself. “Molly Hooper, how have you come to completely fool us all?”_

* * *

“Sherlock,” gently, Mary squeezed his shoulder. “Sherlock, Molly’s awake.” His eyes flew open, and he got to his feet. “I’m going to find John,” she continued. “Stay here with her,” he tried to smooth the creases out of his shirt. “Just…slowly, Sherlock, don’t pester her yet,” he gave her a look that said he knew that. Mary crossed the room, gently touched Molly’s hand. “Sherlock will wait with you, I’ll be right back.”

Tugging the chair over to the bedside, Sherlock sat down. Carefully, Molly turned so she could see him.   
“Would you like anything?” he asked.

“I’d like this spot in my eye to clear up so I can see you properly,”

“You’ll have to wait a few weeks for that, I’m afraid.”

“I thought as much,” she wiggled her fingers carefully. “At least he didn’t break my fingers.”

“He broke just about everything else,” Sherlock answered glibly.

“Have you figured out what happened?” she asked after a moment, and then almost smiled, eyes shining. “Of course you have, you always do.”

“I think I’ve figured most of it out, but there are a few things I don’t understand.”

“Sherlock Holmes admits he doesn’t understand something? Perish the thought,” she teased gently, her giggle was weak though, still in pain. She sobered quickly, suddenly hesitant. “Can you tell me how I got out? I know I took his knife, I don’t know what I did with it.” Sherlock was quiet for a few moments, for the first time very careful of his words.

“You...took his knife…and defended yourself.”

“Is he dead?” her voice was suddenly cold, and he was startled.

“Yes.” The ice in her eyes melted, relief flooding her features, she sighed deeply.

“Thank heaven,” she murmured.

“Something doesn’t add up,” Sherlock said, interrupting her thoughts. She opened her eyes. “Why did he untie you?”

“Haven’t you figured it out?” she asked. She may not quite have remembered killing Moran (she was glad of that), but she understood exactly why he was untying her. Even here, safe in St. Barts under Sherlock’s watch, she still felt the shame, the dread, the fear she felt when Moran had returned that day, coming near her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Outside Molly’s Room**

John and Mary stood with the doctor, who was filling them in on Molly’s current status and the care she would need when she was well enough to go home.

“She’ll be staying with us, we have a spare room,” Mary nodded, taking the care-list. “Anything else? Appointments for physical therapy I imagine,”

“Yes, I have an excellent one to recommend, we can go over that later, but there also will be several therapists on call for Miss Hooper when she is ready, Doctor Bremen is highly recommended as he has dealt with several cases of kidnapping and torture as well as victims of sexual-assault.” John and Mary stood staring. For a moment, neither John nor Mary moved.

“I’m sorry?” John asked finally.

“Were you not told?” the doctor seemed surprised. “Moran raped her.”

John blinked twice, breathing through his nose, sure if he opened his mouth something vile would come out. He attempted to clear his throat, finding he didn’t have the breath for it. He rocked on his heels for a moment, wiping his upper lip with his forefinger. Mary took his hand, squeezing hard.

“Does she remember?” she asked quietly.

“She could describe it in detail.” John could feel his eye twitch, and again, Mary squeezed his hand, calming him as the doctor continued: “Mr. Holmes has informed me this information should be kept from his brother if at all possible. There will be a therapist in contact with Miss Hooper in a day or so.” Mary took the business card from the doctor’s outstretched hand, nodding her thanks. The doctor turned then, heading back down the hall. Mary turned to John, her fingers still laced with his.

“Just…give me a minute…please,” he managed. She nodded, looking at her feet, listening as her husband took even breaths, trying to wrap his head around this new information.

“You okay?” Mary asked finally, her voice quiet. “I feel like I should be the one falling apart at the seams,” she murmured shakily. John pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to find his voice.

“I’m just…I’m trying to figure out why anyone would hurt her. It’s _Molly…_ ” He scrubbed his face, heaving a sigh. "It wasn't enough to truss her up he had to-"

The door flew open, making them both jump. Sherlock hurried out, ignoring them.

“Where are you going?” John’s phone rang, while Mary turned and went in to see Molly. “Hello? What?” John hadn’t bothered to look at who was calling.

 _“Follow him, John. Don’t leave him alone,”_ If The Woman’s so-called death would be a danger-night for Sherlock, Mycroft wasn’t sure what Sherlock would do knowing Molly Hooper had been raped by one of the world’s most despicable men.

John broke into a run, shoving his phone back in his pocket. Skidding to a stop at the end of the hallway, he found Sherlock at the open window, breathing deeply.

“Sherlock, come inside,”

“I believe I’m already inside,” he replied. He bent his head, his hand moving up to the corner of his eyes.

“You heard what the doctor said?”

“No, Molly told me,” he remained where he was. “I suppose Mycroft called?”

“Yes,” John put his hands in his pockets, keeping his eye on Sherlock. “If you’re thinking of going anywhere, don’t think I’m above calling Greg and having him lock you up for the night,”

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” the Consulting Detective replied evenly. “Or have you forgotten Molly’s reaction the last time I got high?” John remembered quite vividly, mousy Molly Hooper slapping Sherlock across both cheeks. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” Sherlock confirmed.

“You need to talk to Molly,”

“Is she alone?”

“No, Mary’s with her right now. Why? Did she seem in a dangerous…place?”

“John, don’t beat around the bush. No. She has not shown signs of suicidal tendencies. There is more to her than you think.”  
“I think she proved that the other day.”

“Not to herself, though,” Sherlock grasped his wrist behind his back, thinking.

“We need to be there for her and help her see that. Show her support, that we’re here for her.”

“’Here for her’,” Sherlock sneered in disgust. “Will that make the fact that it happened go away, John? Will it make her living with that horror any easier? Will our being here for her make her heal faster?”

“Not one bit,” John bit out. “But that doesn’t matter, because it’s what we’re supposed to do. Would you feel any better sitting home alone?”

“No but-“

“Then shut up, get in there, and smile, read to her or I don’t know what-“

“I don’t-“ Sherlock shut his eyes, frustrated. “I don’t know what to do, John,” he admitted finally. “Part of me wants to go on treating her as I always have,”

“And the other half?” John asked. Sherlock didn’t move, staring at the floor, suddenly deciding the tiles were far more fascinating than the current conversation.

“The other half wants to clear a space in 221b for Toby’s scratching post.”

John blinked several times, trying to decide if he had actually heard correctly. When he said nothing, Sherlock continued:

“She told me what happened, how when,” he waved his hand awkwardly. “Moran had her, she said what made it easier to take was that she knew I’d been through worse,” he chewed on his lip. “She seems to have this idea that she’s stupid,” pensive, Sherlock fell silent. 

“We tend to think of the strongest people we know when we’re in bad situations, whether they’ve endured what we have or not,” John said quietly.

“Point being?”

“The point is…she doesn’t blame you, Sherlock, so stop blaming yourself. At the end of the day, the only thing that matters is that Molly is here, she’s safe again, and Moran is dead. She’s going to need time to heal, before she can begin to move on.”

* * *

Sherlock followed John back to the room. He couldn’t say what he meant, that he wished Molly could see how much he admired her, how much she had been in his thoughts since his return. He wanted to tell her how grateful he was her engagement had ended, (though not perhaps that she felt even more lonely and worthless than before, which he may have also been partly the cause of) because it meant he was free to pursue her. He wanted to tell her that he had begun to want what John and Mary had (to a lesser degree, matching kits, do be serious) and he wanted to share it with her. He wanted to tell her that when Moran had kidnapped her, he did not sleep for the first week and a half, because he was desperate to save her. More than anything he wanted to tell her the pride, the absolute ecstasy he’d felt when he found out that Molly Hooper, his brave, spectacular, plain, mousy, Molly Hooper had rescued herself, and single-handedly taken down the man guilty of so many deaths. She took him out without guile, without brute force. Molly Hooper, half-beaten and nearly dead, assaulted to the furthest measure a human can be, took out the last link in Moriarty’s web, the one Sherlock had sworn he himself had killed, but not without having to infiltrate several gangs, a highly organized crime ring and several countries. Molly finished the job with a standard combat knife and the fact that Moran thought she was too weak to fight back.

Sherlock came to stand in the doorway of the room; Mary was reclining on the couch, holding up a magazine, showing Molly a picture inside, some gossip rag, trying to illicit a grin from the pathologist. It half-worked and Sherlock found himself pleased at even that small emotion. She seemed small on the hospital bed, all bandages and black-and-blue marks. She kept blinking, still unused to the scar on her eye. She idly stroked Toby, taking comfort in the cat’s presence.

“What do you think, Sherlock?” Realizing he was being addressed, looking at John and then Mary. “Think she’ll pull through?”

“Kicking and screaming,” he nodded, and smiled inwardly, seeing a familiar twinkle in Molly’s eyes. This time, her smile reached the corners of her eyes, and he was pleased. “You’re no quitter, are you?” Still quiet, Molly shook her head, looking at her lap. “Of course you’re not.” He sat down in the chair nearest the bedside, propping his feet up on the bed by hers so they were just nearly touching. The next time Mary held up the magazine, pointing out some other ridiculous article, Molly was able to smile genuinely, and she even laughed a little. Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin, his gaze lingering on her before he closed his eyes, sinking into his mind palace. Yes, Molly Hooper was certainly strong enough to get through this. True, she wasn’t like John or Mary, battle-hardened and all that, and he knew it would be a long time before he would see some of the old Molly in her, but he also knew she would keep moving forward and he would see to it that no matter what, he would be at her side every step of the way, if she would have him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Therapy session discussing murder and mention of rape.

The room was still, Doctor Bremen did not keep clocks that made noise, (it was a trigger for a previous patient) the windows were sound-proofed to keep out the noise of the traffic below. Doctor Bremen was a quiet, calm, willowy built man. He had kind eyes and a gentle smile. He had told her on her first visit she could arrange the furniture any way she pleased, and at first she felt that was odd, until she sat down in the chair across from him. It seemed like a long, empty path leading directly towards her, and there was nothing to hide behind. She knew in her heart of hearts that she was safe here, that a security team from Mycroft was just outside the door, but she couldn't stop herself from looking for something to put between them. In the end, she'd dragged a coffee table, a potted plant and an ottoman nearer to where she sat, attempting to place them in a way that still looked nice but would make it difficult for someone to come after her. Doctor Bremen let her, saying nothing, only studying her, careful not to appear critical.

"If you put the potted plant by your chair," he said suddenly. "You can throw a handful of dirt, and then knock it over in the attacker's path." She looked at the plant, and then at him, not sure if he was serious or not. "It's not a criticism," he assured her. "I had a former client who used to push knives down in the soil. He never threatened me with them, but it made him feel safe on bad days."

"Have you ever been attacked?"

"No," he shook his head. "Not in so many words, I have been threatened, but that hardly compares to what you have endured."

Every day, before each session, she fixed the furniture the way she wanted it, and then sat down. It was a comforting ritual. Doctor Bremen encouraged her to talk about her day, who her friends were, and how she felt about them.

"The Watson's are still looking after me," Molly said. "It won't be long until I can be on my own again."

"How do you feel about that? Being on your own again?"

"I don't like it…" Molly paused. "I never liked it, but I live with it," she shrugged. "Having a cat made it a little easier, but now…"

"Now?"

"Now…it's…not just because I'm lonely that I dread leaving the Watson's. I feel safe there,"

"How do you feel now?"

"Overwhelmed, nervous…I'm not ready to leave them yet…I mean I am…I feel like I'm in the way, but I don't know if I ever want to be on my own again."

"Why not find a flatmate?" he suggested. "It might make things easier for you, looking after rent and so on, and you wouldn't be entirely alone."

* * *

Sherlock liked the idea immediately. John and Mary both frowned at his enthusiasm.

"Sherlock, she's not moving in with you,"

"John, don't make that choice for her," Mary scolded. "If she wants to, it's entirely up to her,"

"I don't want to," Molly said, too quickly. Sherlock's face fell. "I- I mean…not…that is…it's too soon…it's, um-"

"It's alright," Sherlock interrupted her, a touch of kindness in his voice. "Truly, you aren't ready, but perhaps Mrs. Hudson has something suitable for you." He would not say what he was bothering the kindly old woman about, but John assured Molly whatever it was would be harmless. Mostly.

It was good, staying with John and Mary. They were gentle with her, but did not treat her like a china doll. They never brought up what happened unless Molly did, they let her do the talking, and gave advice if she asked for it. They were careful not to push opinions on her or make suggestions.

Mycroft, oddly enough, picked her up for each therapy session. Anthea always sat beside her, and Molly found it comforting for some reason. She felt drawn to the quiet PA for some reason, which was utterly bizarre. She barely spoke two words, but she always looked at her when Mycroft helped her into the car. Molly looked back one day, and was surprised to see that Anthea had no pity in her eyes, but something more, as if she understood how she felt. After that, Molly received a text now and again, just a few short sentences, tips like:

_Lavender sachets in the pillow help you fall asleep, as do drops of lavender oil on each wrist. – A_

Or

_Keep something as a grounding agent with you, a small stone, a calming picture or some other object to help you remember your grounding phrases. – A_

Molly's things were in storage for the time being, she might have held onto Toby's old collar if she knew where it was. In the end, she didn't have to look far for something comforting. She was sitting on Sherlock's couch while Mrs. Hudson made tea. Sherlock approached Molly, and set a small box on her lap.

"That's pretty," she commented, admiring the carvings.

"It's made of ivory, with a hidden switch to open it," he said and sat in his own chair. Molly frowned at the box, turning it this way and that. There was a seam all the way around, but the edges were all smooth. Leaning forward, Sherlock gently covered her hands in his, helping her find the switch on the top. Inside it was a black opal the size of her palm. It usually sat on Sherlock's mantle, just far forward enough to catch the light when the sun came up. Molly often took it off of Sherlock's mantle when she came over, usually to admire it, lately to hold it.

"Mycroft often said you were like a crow, picking over the shiny things," Sherlock said, gently teasing and Molly sniffled, laughing.

"You should talk," she smiled at the smooth stone, admiring it for a moment. "Are you sure you want to part with it? It must be worth a fortune."

"You're worth a good deal more," he replied. "I hope you'll keep it, at any rate," he turned, crossing the room.

"I will, thank you," he turned back and was pleased to see her smile reach her eyes. He had no words, so he only nodded, turning back to his violin.

* * *

Her memories were returning of that last day in the bunker, more specifically when she killed Moran. The first had shaken her from what she thought was a nightmare. The second flashback nearly caused her to give poor Mycroft a concussion. He didn't seem to quite understand why he'd been bashed over the head with Molly's purse when he was only trying to get into his car, but he was utterly forgiving. Despite her profuse apologies, and Mycroft's assurance that no harm was done, she couldn't stop shaking. Anthea took charge, digging through Molly's purse for the stone.

"What are your grounding words?"

"That I'm here in the present," Molly breathed, feeling tears still rolling down her cheeks. The pothole the front tire thunked through could have been a knife plunging through solid flesh.

_A startled gasp. Gurgling in his throat. He stared at her, shocked. Blood, blood everywhere. He kicked his legs and she raised the knife again, holding it there until she felt him stop moving._

"You're here in the present," Anthea's voice startled her back from the flashback. Rain drummed on the roof of the car, muffling the noise, a comforting sound, and Molly took a breath, releasing it after a moment. Mycroft was studying her, his eyes gentle but observant. "And this feeling, what you're feeling, that's going to pass," Anthea said, her voice sure. The stone in Molly's palm was like an anchor, keeping her locked in the present, keeping her from reeling back into that terrible memory. When the car pulled up outside of John and Mary's flat, Anthea saw her to the door. "Tell your therapist about that," she said. "When you're ready, but do tell him. You'll feel better."

"How do you know?" Molly asked, but Anthea was already shutting the door of the car.

* * *

**Doctor Bremen's office, One Week Later**

"Why did you stab him more than once?"

"I had to kill him," Molly shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"I'm not here to convict you, nor am I judging you, Molly," Doctor Bremen soothed. "I just want to help you understand why, that is what you asked me to do, and that's what I mean to, if you still want me to."

She fidgeted her hands, the bruises were beginning to fade, and the mark on her eye had gone away, somewhat. She wondered if it was a cruel irony that she would keep that constant scar, directly in her line of vision as a reminder of what she'd gone through. "Shall I end this session?" Doctor Bremen's voice was calm and quiet, he was a very nice man, and his demeanor always put her at ease.

"No, no I'd rather stay," she said quietly. After a moment, she relaxed somewhat and the doctor looked at his notepad again.

"You told me you were already hurt," he said. "Very badly indeed, but you also said that you couldn't leave him until you knew he was dead." Her eyes squinted, as if forcing tears back.

"I had to," she murmured. He raised an eyebrow, pausing in his notes.

"It must have taken a lot of effort, to stab him twice more."

"I had to," she replied automatically, realizing she was repeating herself.

"Why did you feel you had to kill him?" Doctor Bremen's voice was gentle.

"I had-" she started, and then shut her mouth, retracing her thoughts. "I wouldn't let him touch me again, and I knew if I didn't kill him, he'd come after me again."

"Do you regret killing him?"

"Yes- no…not…" she sighed heavily. "I don't know. I'm glad he's gone, he was a bad man, he killed so many people…I just wish…I wish I hadn't been the one to do it. But…but I'm glad I-" Her hands shook, twisting the tissues in her lap. "Sherlock tells me I did the right thing, everyone says I did the right thing. But..."

"But?"

"I don't like being the cause of anyone's death."

"Often in these situations, there is a fight or flight method, sometimes we have to take both routes, in this case, you understood Moran was a hardened criminal, a murderer, indeed, your kidnapper and rapist, you knew that he would kill and kill again if given the chance. You saved many more people by stopping him when you had the chance."

"I know I did," Molly answered. "I know…"

"Earlier, you caught yourself repeating 'I had to', can you share with me why you felt inclined to repeat it?" she shrugged, looking at the floor and then the ottoman in front of her knees. She knew exactly what it meant. She'd been repeating it to herself the day Moran came back to the bunker.

_Down the long shadowy hallway she could hear the door rattle and unlock. Moran never announced himself, unlike his former employer. He'd raped her, Molly felt as a last resort, when beating her up proved to be unfruitful (she refused to give any information regarding Sherlock or John Watson). When he'd finished he rigged her back up into the harness, letting her feet dangle within inches of the ground. He studied her, and this time, she looked back at him. If he was surprised, she didn't know, but he gave the tiniest of nods to her. She didn't know what it meant, if he seemed to understand she wouldn't be broken or not. He spat on the ground, turned on his heel and then left her there. She knew he'd come back, and when he did, she knew she had to get out._

" _I have to. I don't want to. I have to." His footsteps echoed down the long hallway. "I have to. He's stronger than me. I have to." The door opened, shut, and the tumblers clicked into place. "I have to. He could kill me. I'll kill him first. I have to. I have to. I have to." All night she repeated that mantra, sleep wasn't exactly an option when she was strapped into the harness._

"Molly?" she looked up, blinking quickly to see Doctor Bremen across the room. "You seemed lost in thought, can you share it with me today?" she shook her head and he nodded, making a note. "What can you tell me about the day he came back, the day you escaped? Do you remember anything in particular?"

"He wore the same clothes as when he'd raped me,"

"What did you think he was there for?"

"To beat me, or rape me, but I think that day he was going to kill me whenever he was finished with whatever it was he planned for me."

"Did you know you were going to kill him?"

"Yes," felt her whole body stiffen.

"Did you have a plan?"

"Not exactly. I would rather have killed him with a gun than a knife…that sounds terrible,"

"When faced with limited options, there is always a more preferable one, as you are now the one who struggles with the fact that you ended his life. But Molly, you must realize this: it hurts no one but yourself to dwell on it. It is human to regret the act, it is _damaging_ to yourself to only remember that you killed a man, rather than you saved yourself, and countless others no doubt." She felt her throat swell, until she forced out a sob, covering her mouth to try and quiet herself. "It's alright to cry," he assured her.

"Will you hand me a box of tissues?" she asked, through her choked sobs. He nodded, getting up, finding the box on his desk he moved carefully around the coffee table before he placed them on the ottoman and retreated back to his chair.

"It will take time to accept and move on," Doctor Bremen said once she'd managed to dry her eyes and blow her nose. "The traumas you endured, physically and mentally will leave scars that may last the rest of your life. It is up to you to put them aside. You are capable of this, and you have taken a very big step today. You've done extremely well." There was no tone of surprise in his voice, there was no condescension, and Molly felt a small relief in knowing he meant what he said.

* * *

That day, when she stepped into Mycroft's car, she was surprised to see Sherlock sitting in his brother's place.

"Mycroft sends his regards and apologizes that he could not meet you, but there was some trouble with the UN or something."

"Oh, I…hope everything goes well for him." He helped her in, shutting the door after her and knocking on the privacy glass.

"Session went well?" he asked. She shrugged.

"I don't want to think too much on it right now," she answered. "But it did…I suppose it did." She leaned her head against the cushion, sighing heavily. "I'll tell you about it later tonight."

"You will?" he was surprised, and, he was not loathe to say, honored that she would entrust him with some knowledge of her therapy sessions. Sherlock had been very, very careful not to do any snooping in or around her files, and it was without John Watson's threats that he did so.

"Of course I will," she looked over at him. "Unless you'd rather not hear about them."

"No, if you'd like to share something with me, I would be pleased to hear it." She 'hummed' in response, shutting her eyes again.

Sherlock helped her up to John and Mary's flat, letting her remove her own scarf and coat.

"Go lay down for a few hours," he suggested, knowing she was exhausted from her therapy session. "John and Mary won't be home until six, I'll wake you, if you like." Needing no more permission than this, she flopped onto the couch, rolling onto her side with a groan, curling into a ball. After a moment, Sherlock went to her room, returning with a blanket for her. Careful not to touch her, he spread the duvet over her.

"Over my head under my chin," she said softly, and he obeyed, tucking the corner just under her chin where her fingers latched onto the underside. The flat was quiet for a while until Molly sighed. "Talk a little, if you like, I know you dislike quiet," she paused. "Don't worry about keeping me awake either." He smiled at this, deciding to tell her of his latest case, the particularly baffling autopsy, to which she, through a sleep-induced fog, mumbled solutions, giggling when Sherlock scoffed at them.

"Oh, by-the-by, whenever you're ready to leave John and Mary's, Mrs. Hudson has a flat for you."

"She does?" Molly asked tiredly.

"Mm, right on Baker Street,"

"That's nice…"

"It is. It's the flat just above mine, so we needn't be flat mates, yet." She cracked an eye open, seeing him turning to face her. "Mrs. Hudson has wanted to fix up that flat for ages. John only ever kept a bed up there, the walls still need painting but the appliances are all new, a new bed has been ordered, and your things can finally come out of storage. I can have a man fetch them and bring them middle of next week if you like."

"You…you did all that for me?" she asked softly, her exhaustion temporarily put aside.

"Of course I did."

"I don't have to find another place to live," she shut her eyes, her sigh full of relief. "Thank you," tears of exhaustion and joy pricked the corners of her eyes. Before she could finish thanking him, she'd fallen asleep. Sherlock smiled, bending, he kissed her forehead, tucking the blanket under her chin again.

"You are most welcome Molly Hooper."


	5. Chapter 5

**One Month Later - 3 AM**

“John, John! Get up! My water broke!”

“Molly heard Mary waking the slumbering doctor and pushed back the covers. Sleep was often fleeting, but this time she didn’t mind as much. With Mary’s due date a week past, and still no sign of the littlest Watson making her grand entrance, no one seemed to be getting much sleep.

“I’ve got a mop, John,” Molly said, coming into their bathroom. “Help her dress. Her bag is by the door. Don’t wait for me, go ahead, I’ll call Sherlock.”

“Share a cab with him, have him pick you up,” Mary called before wincing through a contraction.

* * *

Sherlock picked up on the first ring.   
“Is it time?” he asked.

“Mary and John are on their way to St. Barts right now.”

“Share a cab? I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be ready.”

* * *

Sherlock arrived, hair sticking out at odd angles. Molly stifled a giggle, smothering her laughter.

“Wait a moment; you’re not going anywhere until you fix that,”

“What?” he looked at himself in the mirror in the hallway. “There’s no time, Molly, Mary is about to give birth to my godchild!”

“Trust me, the baby is going nowhere fast, we can take two minutes to comb your bloody hair,” Molly found a brush, wetting it under the faucet. “Hold still,” Sherlock bent over so she could reach, quickly brushing smoothing down his cowlicks. “There, done,”

“Good, cab’s waiting.”

“Snacks,” Molly ran to the fridge.

“Mollyyyyy…” Sherlock groaned.

“You’re going to get hungry,” she said and grabbed the lunch she’d packed for the next day. “Oh, what about -“

“Whatever it is, I’ll buy it from the gift shop, let’s go!” he took her by the arm, hurrying her out the door.

“Lock the door!” she called and he turned around, rattling the knob.

“Locked,” together they clattered down the stairs.

“John says they’ve got a room, she’s doing fine, right on time, but we may be in for a wait,” Molly said, checking her messages.

“Hopefully not for long.”

* * *

**Seven Hours Later**

“Would you ever have children?” Sherlock asked suddenly. Molly shrugged, looking up from her knitting. Her therapist had suggested a calming hobby, knitting was among them. It kept her hands busy and the repetitive motions kept her focused. She wasn’t terrific yet, but she was trying at any rate.

“That depends- oh piss it-” she recounted her stitches.

“On what?”

“Lots of things,” she laughed. “It takes two to tango, first off-“ Sherlock frowned. “To make a baby, Sherlock.”

“Oh.”

“And I wouldn’t want to raise one without a father.”  
“You’d be perfectly adequate, raising a child by yourself.”

“Adequate, maybe,” she nodded. “But I wouldn’t want to be merely adequate for something as important as a child.”

“Hm.”

“Why do you ask?” She rolled up her knitting, setting it back in her purse.

“You wanted children before,” he said. “I wondered if it changed.”

“I’m not saying that it’s my only goal in life, but…yes, I still do want kids, but if it doesn’t happen,” she shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose I never expected to be a mummy, I _want_ to be, but on my terms. I suppose it’s like marriage. I have standards, I don’t expect many to measure up, and I can’t accept less.”

“Right. Husband, father, tangoing.” She laughed, resting her head against him, she tucked her arm in his.

“Exactly.”

“What if…” he paused, thinking. “What if you marry and he doesn’t want children.” She opened her eyes slowly, clearly pondering something.

“Tom didn’t want kids,” Sherlock turned his head so he could see her.

“Is that…what ended it?”

“I think it was part of it. He was adamantly against it, funnily enough. He hated children.”

“I don’t hate children,” Sherlock muttered. She squeezed his arm, smiling softly.

“Not all children, at any rate,” she added. “Certainly not John and Mary’s.”

“Never,” he agreed. “Unless it turns out to be a serial killer or something.” 

“Hm,” she laughed a little, yawning. “Heavens,” she murmured. “This baby is taking her time,”

“You can sleep if you want, I’ll wake you if something happens,”

“Will you?” she asked. “I haven’t slept in ages,”

“It’s no trouble.” Knowing Sherlock was keeping watch, Molly felt comfortable enough to fall asleep, deep enough to dream.

* * *

When she woke, her head was in Sherlock’s lap, he was squeezing her shoulder.

“You were speaking in your sleep,” he said quietly. “You seemed upset,”

“I was,” she murmured. “Did John come yet?”

“Yes, he’s just gone back in to Mary.” She sat up, stretching.

“The baby?”

“A perfectly healthy girl,” he assured her.

“What did they name her?”

“Dunno, didn’t say. Come on, let’s go wait by the door.” He helped her to her feet, gathering her bag and coat for her, guiding her down the hallway. John was just leaving the room.

“I was just coming to fetch you,” he said, all aglow.

“Hullo dad,” Molly kissed his cheek. “How’s mum?”

“She’s brilliant, so’s the baby, go ahead in,” he pointed her into the room, moving out of the way for the nurses. Sherlock reached his hand out, grasping John’s.

“Congratulations-“ Molly didn’t hear what else was said, Mary was waving her over.

“Come and meet your namesake.”

“What?” Molly asked, not quite believing her.

“Your namesake,” John said, entering the room again, Sherlock close behind.

“Molly Rosamund Watson,” gently, gently, Mary passed the baby to Molly.

“Me?” she asked softly. “You- you named her for me?”

“Course we did,” John said. Molly’s expression was a mixture of shock and honor.

“I hope you don’t mind,”

“No I don’t- I don’t mind,” Molly sniffled. She sank into the chair by the bed, gently pushing back the blankets to peer at the tiny face. “She’s so small and…wonderful,” she managed, and smiled at John and Mary. “I’m so happy for you, really.”

* * *

She _was_ happy for them. She was honored deeply that they named their first child after her. Molly couldn’t think of anyone who could be a better mother than Mary, nor a better father than John. Holding her namesake, she couldn’t help but compare how different they were. Molly Rosamund Watson, untouched and untainted by the world, she wasn’t bitter or angry, she had no idea what regret was, what shame felt like, she didn’t know what disappointment or hurt was yet. Molly desperately wanted to keep these things from her. She felt a fierce desire to protect this one from all the harms of the world. She nearly snatched the child away when Sherlock gently reached over for his turn to hold the baby. Reluctantly, she passed Rosamund over to the waiting Consulting Detective..

“I love her middle name,” Molly said.

“I rather like her first name,” Sherlock said smugly.

“We can’t have two Molly’s, it will be confusing,” Molly replied.

“Her first name is Molly,” John said firmly. “We’ll just call her Rosie around family and friends,” he shrugged. Molly had never seen Sherlock hold a child and was almost shocked with the care and gentleness he showed, swaying back and forth with Rosamund in his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him. The room was quiet, and he looked up to the other three faces, all staring at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing, Sherlock,” John patted him on the shoulder. “But I’ll take her back, thank you, because it’s time for a feeding lesson, so excuse us,” Molly was already standing, kissing Mary’s cheek, then John’s, congratulating them once more. Sherlock lingered a while more, staring at the baby with wonderment.

“You can watch me breast-feed some other time,” Mary said and startled, Sherlock grabbed his coat, nodding and hurrying out.

* * *

He found Molly in the hallway again. She looked up, startled. Wiping her eyes, she dug through her purse for a tissue.

“Here,” he handed her a few from his coat.

“Thanks,”

“Are you angry they won’t call her Molly?” he asked.

“No, good heavens, why should I?” she asked. “I love her name, I’m…surprised they named her after me,” she blew her nose, balling up the tissues in her hand after. “And…I’m jealous, I suppose.”

“Of what?”

“Lots of things,” Molly shrugged. “I’m jealous of what John and Mary have, baby included,” she offered a weak smile. “I’m jealous of people who sleep through the night, of people who are happy, who’s hands don’t shake at loud noises, who don’t have to carry rocks in their purses or keys between their fingers, I’m jealous of the whole rotten world, and I don’t want to be, because it’s such a nice day,” she sobbed. She calmed herself, wiping her eyes and nose again. “Don’t tell John or Mary, please don’t tell them,”

“I won’t,” Sherlock murmured quietly. “I promise I won’t.” after a moment, he took her hand, and she squeezed back.

“I only need a minute,” she said quietly. “I’ll be fine,”

“Shall I go?”

“Please don’t,” she held onto his hand. “Please don’t ever go,”

“I won’t.”

* * *

Now that Rosamund was born, Molly felt that she should move to her new flat as soon as she could, before Mary came home, if possible.

“Don’t you dare move out because you think you’re taking up space,” Mary said as soon as Molly mentioned finding boxes. “You move out when you’re ready, not because you think we want to get rid of you, because that certainly isn’t going to happen.”

“You stay as long as you want,” John said, agreeing.

“Honestly, you’ll need my room for the baby, she can’t sleep in a bassinet in your room her whole life,” Molly said. “Besides, Doctor Bremen said it’s a healthy step.”

“Are you ready for it though?” Mary asked.

“I won’t know until I try,” Molly replied. In truth, she was petrified to sleep all alone, no one else in the flat, just her and Toby, it was a little frightening. But she also knew that she couldn’t hide in John and Mary’s spare bedroom for the rest of her life either. Life goes on, and so must she.

* * *

The flat above Sherlock’s was perfect, or just about. Not unlike Sherlock’s set-up, but a little more open. Mary and John went with Molly to find paint samples. She remembered the plain white and tan walls alternating in her old flat, her landlord forbidding her to paint over them (some concern about fumes or the like).

In the end, she had the front door painted as green as you could wish, John did the deed himself, quite pleased. Mary, at John and Molly’s orders, sat on the tarp-covered couch and watched while the others helped paint the living room a buttery yellow. The bathroom was alternating shades of raspberry and Paris green, the bedroom was a soothing lilac with a dove grey bed set. 

“You wanted color and you got it,” John chuckled, admiring their handiwork.

“Good God,” Sherlock uttered, staring at the bathroom walls. Rosie gurgled in his arms; he bounced up and down to sooth her. “See? She hates it too. Made her spit up.”

“I think that’s more to do with the fact that she just ate,” Mary laughed, taking the baby from him.

“I like it,” Molly insisted.

“It’s good to have a place you feel comfortable in,” John said, agreeing with her. “And anyway it’s cheerful.”

“We can spruce the bed up a little, I bet we can figure out how to do one of those padded headboards,” Mary said.

“I’ve been known to be a handy-man,” John nodded.

“When?” Mary teased.

“I’ve got a tool kit at any rate,” John said. “Wouldn’t do me any harm to use it. Brand new, thank you very much.”

“What will you do with that thing anyway? You don’t hang so much as a picture.”

“Old bat,” he threw at her, laughing.

“Doddery old fool,” she kissed him, sharing his smile.

“I’m not old.”

 _“Tool box,”_ Sherlock thought. _“Why is that familiar-“_ A door adjacent to Molly’s rooms in his mind palace opened, and the new tool box with the receipt in the handle stood there, near the discarded harness.

Sherlock looked to Molly, realizing she was no longer in the bedroom. Quietly leaving John and Mary to their tiff, or lack thereof, Sherlock headed out to the living room. Molly was holding the polished black opal, squeezing it in her left hand, then transferring it to the other, flexing her fingers around the stone. Her purse was turned over on its side in her attempt to find it.

“Don’t be mad at him,” she said quickly, knowing where his mind was going. “He didn’t know about the tool box. Besides I’ve been due a panic attack any day now. Moving makes me jittery.”

“Are you alright now?” He didn’t move to touch her, forcing himself to keep his hands in his pockets.

“No…” she looked at the opal, sniffing. “Sometimes I don’t think I’ll ever be, cripes, I can’t even- a stupid house-hold object sets me to flashbacks and-“ she stopped, taking a deep breath.

“This too shall pass?” he quirked an eyebrow.

“Don’t make fun,” she said hotly.

“Sorry,” he sobered. “It is true though, you won’t always be tied to these feelings when you hear certain words, or see things that remind you of that place.”

“So I’m told,” she shrugged. “Seems hopeless sometimes, people keep telling me it isn’t.”

“Do you believe it?” he asked.

“I try to. It’s hard when I can’t seem to stop shaking, or when I’m afraid to take the train home or sometimes even leave the house.”

“You know you needn’t ever be alone,” Sherlock said quietly. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“I know.”

“I’ll check the locks on your door every night, and your windows too, and I’ll see that there’s an alarm installed on the downstairs door if you would like it,” his hands were out of his pockets. He was attempting to maintain his calm demeanor, to Molly it was working, but Sherlock felt the panic inside of him rising. If Molly did not feel safe here, under his protection, she might move, perhaps even out of London. “If that isn’t enough, I will sleep on your sofa, or by your door on the stairwell if you would prefer.”

“On the stairwell?”

“If you didn’t want me in your flat,” he shrugged. Molly smiled a half-smile, thought he did not miss the hurt that flashed in her eyes.

“You’ll always be welcome in my flat, Sherlock. I can’t promise I’ll never hit you with the cricket bat again if you startle me, but you’ll always be welcome.”

“Noted,” he replied, the tiniest of smirks gracing his face.

* * *

She was moved in completely over the weekend.

“I wish I could repay you with more than pizza and Chinese food,” Molly said.

“Me too,” Mary replied, gently rocking Rosamund in her carrier while she ate. “I wish I could have a beer with everyone else.”

“You will eventually,” John promised. “But wean our daughter first.”

“Shut up and drink,” Mary grumbled. When the dishes were washed and put away, John and Mary kissed Molly goodnight.

“Give a call if you need anything,” John said. “Anything at all,”

“It’s no trouble,” Mary added, swaying back and forth with the carrier, to keep Rosie asleep.

“Really, I’ll be fine,” Molly promised.

“If you’re sure,”

“I’m sure,” she smiled confidently. She wasn’t sure, of course she wasn’t, but it was too late to back out now.

“Goodnight, love you Molls!”

* * *

Just as she was shutting the door, Sherlock came tramping up the steps, a dog in tow.

“Molly! You have company!” he said cheerfully.

“What? Who’s that?” she asked, looking at the dog.

“That’s Toby,” Sherlock replied. Molly frowned. “I didn’t name him, Mr. Sherman down on Pinchin Lane in Lambeth owns him.” The dog had a clumsy, waddling gait, he was lop-eared and not _quite_ ugly, but his face was odd. Molly would never say so, of course.

“What breed is he?” she asked, trying not to laugh at the funny looking creature.

“Half spaniel half lurcher.”

“I suppose that explains his color,” she said. “Why is he here?”

“Need him for a case, you don’t mind if he stays up here, do you? Don’t have food for dogs anyway.”

“Won’t Mr. Sherman want him back tonight?” she asked.

“Probably not. He’s dead.”

“What?!” Molly gasped.

“Mm. I was borrowing Toby for a case, when I went to return him Mr. Sherman’s landlord said he’d passed on and the dog was left to me. He’d sold all the other pets in his veritable menagerie to a pet shop. Suits me I suppose, dog is good for tracking, but I don’t have a place for him in my flat.”

“He doesn’t have fleas, does he?” Molly asked.

“Mrs. Hudson gave him a bath and administered the medicine for it, if he had them, he doesn’t have them now. Although speaking in Mr. Shermans’ favor, he always seemed to take good care of his pets.” Molly sighed heavily, looking at the dog.

“Well I- I suppose he can stay here for a few days,” she decided.

“Excellent,” Sherlock hurried downstairs, returning with a twenty pound bag of dog food, a bed and leash. “What?”

“Nothing,” she shook her head. “Shouldn’t we rename him? I mean, I can’t have two Toby’s here.”

“Why? Does Toby the Cat ever come when you call him?”

“Sometimes…” the cat sat up on his perch, eyeing the dog with a measure of distrust. Toby the dog lollopped around the flat, smelling the remnants of dinner, paying no attention to the cat except for a passing ‘who are you’ sniff. “Will you find a home for him?” Molly asked.

“Most assuredly,” Sherlock said. “I’ll be out tonight, have to check on my homeless network.”

“Oh,”

“Only a few hours,” he promised. “Toby’s a good watch dog too, by the way,” he said.

“Well, um…okay…be safe,” Molly shifted, unsure how to bid him goodnight.

“What fun is that?” he asked mock-seriously and she smiled then. “There she is,” he said at her smile. “Goodnight, Molly Hooper, Toby,” he leaned in, looking at the cat on his perch. “Toby,” with a wave of his hand, he hurried down the stairs, whistling to himself as he buttoned his coat.

Molly shut the front door. Toby the dog looked at her, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he sat by her feet.

“Well…I suppose you’ll camp with me for a few days, the week at the very most…two weeks tops,” Molly said to him. “I don’t know as Toby will want you here, and what he says goes.” Toby the cat, as if to reiterate that point growled from his perch, tail lashing. Toby the dog cocked his head, one lop-ear flopping over comically. “Don’t even start with me,” Molly said. “Right now it’s bed time.” 

Toby the cat jumped off his perch, following on light feet after Molly. Toby the dog, sat panting in kitchen. Molly appeared at the end of the hallway.

“Come on then, everyone sleeps in the room, house rule, I’m afraid,” she said. “Come on,” she rolled her eyes. “Toby the dog, come on!” it was all the incentive he needed and he jumped up, trotting after her. “Now, everyone play nice,” Molly set Toby up by her pillow, Toby the dog, waited at the foot of the bed for Molly to climb under the duvet before clambering up to lay at her feet. Looking around the room, Molly could see the bedroom door was shut, her closet light was left on, and the window was locked. With a small sigh, she shut her bedside lamp off and laid on her back. Toby the cat settled in his favorite place, right above her head. Baker street had different noises than John and Molly’s street. In fact it was pretty quiet, save for a car every now and again. Toby the dog was a pleasant weight against her legs. He lay facing the door, head up.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “Just lay down,” he shifted his rear legs slightly, finally putting his head down on his paws, ears still alert.

She thought she’d be awake all night, having a strange presence at her feet. Toby the dog stayed at her side all night, warm and solid. She took some comfort in his alertness. His breathing was soft, reminding her that he was keeping watch. For the first time in a very long time, Molly felt herself grow drowsy and comfortable in her bed. She patted Toby the dog’s hindquarters.

“Don’t get comfortable,” she murmured. “Two weeks tops…maybe three.”


	6. Chapter 6

A scream from upstairs pierced the still night. Sherlock opened his eyes, pushing the covers back. He waited, the creaky floors squeaked under Molly’s light footsteps. The tap ran, followed by a glass breaking, something tumbled to the floor. Mind made up, he got out of bed, heading out of his flat upstairs. Mrs. Hudson was on the landing, tugging her housecoat closed.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, worried. “I heard a terrible noise!” Sherlock paused then. Perhaps Molly would not appreciate him barging in after a nightmare. Mrs. Hudson was not her mother, but she was motherly.

“Perhaps you can be of some help,” Sherlock replied, motioning her to come up.

Molly sat on the bathroom floor, shaking hands as she cried. Stupid memory in her dreams. Stupid Molly for screaming. Stupid glass for breaking. Toby the dog was scratching at the bathroom door, whining. Toby the cat couldn’t care less and sat in the bathtub, glaring over the edge at the noise she was making.

“Molly?” a soft voice called, at first Molly didn’t recognize it. “Molly it’s Mrs. Hudson,” through the frosted glass of the bathroom door she could see the old woman’s shape. “Can I come in dear?”

Sherlock waited on the other side of the door as his landlady was let into the bathroom.

“Ohhh, dearie, there, there,” she soothed. He poked his head around the corner, watching as Mrs. Hudson picked through the glass, sitting on the closed laundry hamper to gather Molly in her arms. Gently, the old woman smoothed Molly’s hair, soothing her brow and cheek. “There, you’ve had a terrible shock now, haven’t you?” she asked softly and Molly tried to apologize for the broken glass and waking her. “Never mind it,” the old woman said. “You think I care about a little thing like that?”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Hudson,” Molly sniffed. “I don’t- I just wish-“ her hand fell limply to her side. “I’m so tired of everything…I’ve ruined everything and nothing is the same and I’m just so tired-“ she sobbed.

“I know you are,” gently, Mrs. Hudson swayed back and forth, rocking the pathologist as she cried. Sherlock, hair mussed from sleep and still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, stared. He did not like this uncertain ache in his chest. He did not like seeing Molly so helpless, and he in turn unable to do nothing to make things right. He couldn’t take away her memories of what went on in the bunker. Quietly, before Molly could notice, he stepped away from the door, slipping back down to his flat to dress. Mrs. Hudson had things well in hand, and he needed to think.

* * *

In the cool night, he shoved his hands into his pockets, heading in no particular direction.

“Going somewhere?” Sherlock felt an arm slip into his and he looked to his side to see Anthea holding his elbow, her other hand clutching her blackberry, tapping out a text.

“Still on my brother’s leash, I see,” he said, directing his gaze back to the empty sidewalk.

“I’m off duty, actually.”

“Has he been checking the CCTV’s?”

“Always.”

“Then he’ll know I need peace and quiet to think.”

“He was merely wondering where you intended to find this peace and quiet.”

“Not in a doss house, if that’s what he’s thinking. I was going for a smoke and then head to John and Mary’s. You may tell Big Brother to sod off. I don’t need him spying on me or my pathologist,” Anthea quirked an eyebrow at him.

“He cares about you,” she said, still holding onto his arm, adjusting her pace to match his.

“I don’t get high anymore,” Sherlock ground out. He dug through his pockets, searching. Anthea held up a cigarette and he stopped walking, muttering his thanks as he took it. He fiddled with his pockets again, in search of a match and again, Anthea held out her hand, this time bearing a lighter.

Under the light of a street lamp, she stood with him as he took his first drag of the cigarette, exhaling after a moment.

“Is she having flashbacks again?” Anthea asked quietly. Sherlock gave her a look. Anthea looked around, finding the security camera mounted on the nearest building, facing it, she removed her earpiece and pocketed her phone before turning back to the younger Holmes. Sherlock tapped the end of his cigarette, flicking ash on the sidewalk.

“Don’t think for one moment I’m going to believe that means Mycroft can’t see us,” he said. “But since you asked and I believe you good enough to care, she’s frustrated,” he paused. “She is upset and exhausted.”

“She’s back at work now, isn’t she?”

“Just started,” he nodded.

“Keep an eye on her, the morgue may be a trigger for her.” Sherlock nodded. He had not considered that. “Talk to her,” Anthea admonished. “She needs to know that it’s okay to talk about it. People will always be there to help her get to sleep, or hold her when she cries, and that’s good, but she’s got to know that she’s done nothing wrong, she’s not damaged, and she’s got nothing to be ashamed of.” Sherlock again flicked the end of the cigarette, studying the ground.

“Who do you talk to, Anthea?” She was quiet, hand on the ear-piece. Silence stretched between him.

“He never made me talk about it, you know.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Sherlock agreed. He dropped the cigarette, stamping it out. “I’m off, always a pleasure, tell Mycroft I said hello,” he spoke into the earpiece in her hand.

“I’d offer you a lift,” she said as he headed down the sidewalk. “But I know you wouldn’t accept it.”

“Correct as always, nothing personal, I’d rather the London air tonight,” he said, walking backwards.

“Smog and toxic fumes, you mean.”

“You work for the government, you’d know better than me,” he called before turning down the street, out of sight.

* * *

**John and Mary’s**

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” Mary opened the door, baby on her breast literally. He did a double-take, and then stepped passed her, shrugging. If she wasn’t bothered, neither was he.

“Needed a walk. Seemed like the better option.”

“What was the other choice?”

“Getting high. Tempting, as it was,” he sat at the kitchen table, about to put his feet up, but Mary pushed them down.

“Molly doing okay?” he shrugged.

“I left her with Mrs. Hudson. She seemed to need someone not…me.”

“Did she say that?”

“No, but it was obvious. She doesn’t trust men at the moment. I didn’t think she’d appreciate one helping her out of the toilet.”

“Don’t be silly,” she shifted Rosie from her breast. “Here take her while I clean up,” draping a cloth over his shoulder, he patted the child’s back. “Molly trusts you implicitly.”

“Hm.”

“You’re one of the few men she does trust.”

“Suppose so,” Rosie gurgled on his shoulder, beginning to fuss. He bounced up and down, shushing her. 

“Why did you think Mrs. Hudson would be able to help her?” Mary asked.

“Molly doesn’t have a mother, and mine is on a luxury cruise at the moment, she seemed like the right fit.”

“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t need you,” Mary returned, buttoning her pajama top. She took the kettle down, filling it. “But I do think Mrs. Hudson might be a big help,” switching the kettle on, Mary leaned against the counter, arms folded across her middle. “A woman will always need her mummy, no matter how old she gets.” She smiled suddenly, looking at Sherlock who finished burping Rosamund and was now standing, weaving back and forth to get her to sleep.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, grinning in a way that he knew meant nothing. “How’s the dog working out, by the way?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Fair. He’s a good watch-dog. Molly lets him sleep on her bed.”

“So she’s keeping him?”

“Obviously.”

Sherlock stayed until Rosie felt heavy in his arms. Realizing she was asleep, he handed her off to Mary.

“Stay for tea,” Mary whispered, tiptoeing to the nursery to put the baby to bed. When she returned to the kitchen, she found Sherlock holding two full mugs, three jaffa cakes in his mouth.

“Well the mystery of John’s disappearing sweets is now solved,” Mary said with a laugh.

“Yours is caffeine-free,” he said around the biscuits in his mouth.

“Thank you.”

“What’s going on?” a voice from the hall made them look up to see John shuffling out of the bedroom, hair askew.

“Just me, I’m off,” Sherlock said. “Mary made you tea,” he tugged his coat on. “Goodnight Mary, John.” He hurried out before the doctor could ask him anything else. 

“What was that about?” he asked, accepting the mug from her, blowing on it a little to cool it.

“Molly,” she shrugged.

“Anything wrong?”

“Everything,” Mary sighed. She got to her feet, putting her arms around his waist with a sigh. Setting his mug down, he returned the embrace.

* * *

**Baker Street**

Sherlock returned to find Mrs. Hudson tiptoeing out of Molly’s bedroom, leaving the door open.

“Is she asleep?”

“I gave her a cup of tea and a little something in it to help her sleep.”

“You drugged her?”

“I told her what was in it,” Mrs. Hudson whispered. “That dog isn’t staying here, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Sherlock,” her tone was warning. “Why did you run off?”

“Needed to think.”

“You’ve not been into anything have you?”

“Tea. John and Mary’s. Smoked a cigarette.”

“Ugh,” she scoffed, moving past him. “Smoke yourself to death,” she muttered.

“Are you going to bed?”

“Yes,” she headed for the door. “You’d best do the same as well, mind you don’t wake her up either. She was worried she frightened you off.”

“Was she better, after I left?” Mrs. Hudson paused in shutting the door, thinking.

“She’s very worn out, she misses you,” with that, she bid him goodnight, quietly shutting the door after her.

* * *

Molly talked in her sleep, nothing profound, mostly mumbled words and distressed noises. Sherlock knew this wasn’t a regular occurrence having used her flat as a bolt-hole from time to time. Whatever Mrs. Hudson had given her must have set it off. Tiptoeing into her room, he sat on the floor by her bed. Toby the dog lay on Molly’s legs, head on her stomach, ears alert.

“Don’t suppose you’d like to change places?” Sherlock asked the dog, who only blinked. “No, suppose that’d end in another cricket bat on my head,” he said and got to his feet, heading back downstairs for a moment. Molly turned in her sleep, groaning as she shifted. Toby the dog lifted his head, stretching.

In a few moments, the door opened and closed, and Toby sat up, letting out a short, low growl.

“It’s only me,” Sherlock said quietly and the dog laid down again. Molly still seemed to be struggling through her dreams. Sherlock stood in the living room, and divested himself of his overcoat and jacket. Quietly, he tuned his violin, testing the strings and rosining the bow. John sometimes had bad dreams of the army, when that happened Sherlock would play his violin to help the doctor sleep again. If it worked for John’s PTSD, perhaps it would work for Molly.

* * *

**The Next Morning**

Molly awoke to Toby the cat purring and drooling on her head, his claws kneading her scalp. Toby the dog was panting and drooling on her legs, watching her sleep.

“Suppose you’re both hungry,” she mumbled, rolling onto her side. Dog and cat leapt off the bed at her moving and headed for the kitchen. Toby the dog ran back, licking her face and then bolted for the doorway, waiting.

Shuffling into her kitchen, she yawned, trying to remember how much and what exactly it was Mrs. Hudson put into her tea last night. Hearing a gentle snore, she turned to see Sherlock sprawled on her short sofa, legs dangling over the end, one arm draped over his face to keep the morning sun out of his eyes. Smiling to herself, she fed the animals and then started on breakfast.

“Tea for me,” she heard his groggy voice from the couch. Smiling, she pushed the lever down on the toaster.

“You’d better have something else,” she said. “Tea won’t keep you all day.”

“Toast and tea,” he amended.

“And one egg.”

“You’re going to make me fat.”

“You could use a little more fat.”

“If you’re going to foster food off on someone, may I suggest Mycroft?” Sherlock sat up, stretching leisurely.

“Take Toby out, while you’re getting up, and I’ll have your tea ready, tell me what you want on your toast too.”

“Jam,” he said and took the dog leash from the hook on the wall, taking Toby by the collar.

He was halfway down the stairs when he realized what he was doing and frowned. How domestic. He might have sneered at the thought, except Toby was yanking him down the steps, and he could smell bacon frying in the pan and he realized he was hungry. Perhaps Molly would make beans as well. 


	7. Chapter 7

Greg flicked the switch on in the morgue, lighting up the room. Molly held her purse in front of her, trying to relax her hands on the strap.

"I'll check the drawers," he said. "You want to walk around the counters?" she nodded and stepped all the way into the morgue. He handed her the keys, which went into her pocket. He headed across the room, opening each cold chamber, his manner calm and casual, even joking about the contents: "There are bodies in these drawers!" and Molly smiled, feeling the tension between her shoulders ease a little. She needed people to laugh more, despite the situation.

"All clear around the counters," she said.

"Drawers are all clear, bodies accounted for," Greg checked his phone. "And just on time, I've got to go, meeting at the Yard. Text me or call if you need anything, anything at all, it's no trouble, I can be over here in ten minutes, six if I use the lights." She smiled genuinely then, touched.

"Thanks Greg," she pressed his cheek quickly. "I'll let you know if I need you tomorrow or not."

"It's not a problem," he promised. "Day or night."

"They're keeping me on day shifts for now, but I'll keep you in mind."

"See you later.

Her first week back at work, Greg had showed up each morning to help her check the drawers. She'd called him that Monday from the doorway of the morgue, staring at the dark room, unable to bring herself to flip the switch. Greg had happily complied, hurrying over to walk her through the lab and mortuary. She knew he couldn't do this forever, and eventually, she'd have to do it herself. But for her first week back, she tried to quell the feelings of guilt that people were putting themselves out for her. Overwhelming fear usually moved her to call her friends, and despite their promises that it was perfectly fine, she knew very well that eventually, people would wonder 'Why isn't she better?' or 'It's been six months, isn't she over it yet?'.

Her true friends wouldn't say those things, she knew that, but there was always the fear that someday she'd see the impatience in their eyes and a tired resignation that 'Molly needed help, _again'_.

Pushing down her insecurities, she tried to focus on the day ahead. That was all she need do for now. With the lab and morgue checked, Molly headed to her office, setting her things down and getting her lab coat. She avoided the locker room, recalling vividly her scuffle with Moran, past the lockers and staff showers, out the back door.

* * *

**Doctor Bremen's Office**

"I can't keep asking them to help me, eventually I'll have to do it myself."

"That's good you recognize that," Doctor Bremen nodded. "Do you find yourself looking forward to that?"

"I suppose so…" she shrugged. "I mean I- I'd rather not be a burden to them-"

"Have they stated to you, or made you feel that it's difficult or an imposition?"

"No," Molly shook her head.

"What do you think would make it easier for you to go to work by yourself?" Molly almost laughed.

"I guess if I wasn't alone."

"Carpooling?"

"No I mean…my work is…it's quiet, and that's alright, but it's very empty…I don't like that there's no one around but me, it makes me feel unsafe."

"What can we do about that?" Doctor Bremen asked. Molly was quiet, thinking.

"I guess…I mean if someone checked up on me, that'd still make me paranoid, I'd be looking at the clock, not at my work. That wouldn't solve anything."

"Some of my patients keep a radio, or a television on in the background, they keep it low, just to have some kind of noise." Again Molly shook her head.

"No, I'd want to hear if someone was coming."

"It's certainly something to think about," Doctor Bremen said. "For now, work on just taking each day at a time, don't worry about six months from now, keep taking the steps we talked about, get dressed every morning, eat breakfast, make a checklist if it helps, it may not seem like much now, but in a few months you'll begin to notice how small steps make big changes," his smile was comforting as he shut his notebook. "That's it for today, I'm glad you were able to come,"

"Toby wasn't a problem, was he?" she asked quickly, gathering the dog's leash. Today she'd brought him to the vet before her therapy appointment to get electronically tagged, and realized she had no time to bring him back to Baker Street.

"Not at all," Bremen said, standing. "He's well-behaved, and it wouldn't be the first time a patient has brought a pet." Doctor Bremen studied the dog, clearly thinking. "Patient brought the dog everywhere, in fact,"

"Well I don't bring Toby everywhere," Molly said with a laugh. "Cafes don't like dogs."

"Would the dead?" Bremen asked with a raised eyebrow. Molly looked at the dog, and then at the therapist.

"You mean…me bring Toby to the morgue? Oh no, people wouldn't- I mean-"

"Why not? What's the harm in asking? What is the absolute worst that will happen?"

"They'll say no."

"Exactly. Asking won't hurt," Bremen shrugged. "If you're comfortable with the dog, if you're confident that he's behaved, then what have you got to lose?"

Molly hated confrontation, and she felt like asking favors was a form of it. Still, it was something to consider. If Toby the dog could come with her to work, he could stay in her office, she could put up a gate, and take him out at lunch for a walk. He was an excellent guard dog, and it might even be good for her mental well-being to have a companion at work. Like those dogs that they take to nursing homes or something.

* * *

"Do you think Stamford would allow it?" Molly asked. Mary carefully turned the egg rolls in the oil, hissing and swearing as it bubbled and spat. Turning the heat down, she shrugged at the pathologist.

"I don't see why not," smiling at Toby the dog, she tossed him a bit of the filling from the bowl. "He's perfectly behaved, Sherlock's Mr. Sherman was a good trainer."

In the other room, Rosie began to fuss.

"I'll get her," Molly said quickly and got up before Mary could wipe her hands. "When did the boys say they'd be back?" she asked.

"I didn't expect them any time soon," Mary shrugged. Sherlock and John were off on a case, at least a nine on Sherlock's scale. Mary, tired of spending the week nights alone, brought Rosamund over to Molly's to have a girl's weekend. "If they get to have their fun, we should have ours," Mary said, so they went to the shops, bought expensive food like duck foie gras and caviar and a box of truffles that cost more than a week's groceries. Molly allowed the indulgence, deciding that she was worth a little spoiling if she did it herself. Besides Mary was a new mummy and new mummies must be allowed luxuries.

In the living room, Molly took Rosie out of her carrier, soothing her.

"Oh, oh, oh, little one," she murmured, swaying back and forth. Mary smiled, nibbling on a toast point.

"You look good with a baby," she said. "You should have one." Molly rolled her eyes, almost laughing.

"I think I'd better deal with my own problems before I try and raise a child."

"Sorry," Mary shrugged. "I didn't mean that you need to have one, but you'd be a good mom, you're the sort I wished my mom was like." Molly frowned, rocking the baby.

"What do you mean?"

"Just," Mary gestured to her. "Molly, gosh, do you realize how amazing you are?" she laughed a little. "You work with dead people,"

"That's not exactly a role people covet."

"It takes a special person," Mary said. "That's _not_ how I meant it, and you know it-" she said, seeing Molly's look of exasperation. "You care, you're strong enough to take this line of work, and yes, enjoy what you do, that's a feat not many adults have accomplished. You're confident in what you do, that's amazing. I wish my parents had been half as brave as you are," Mary smiled. "Molly, you've got so much to give, that's why you'd be a good mother."

Molly didn't know what to say, so she distracted herself with Rosie, gently slipping her finger into the baby's grasp.

"Well…we'll see," she murmured at last. She turned, her smile brighter at Mary. "For now I get to spoil this little one."

* * *

That night, Toby at her feet, Molly thought about what Mary said. She didn't quite believe it yet, but it felt good, knowing someone like Mary thought that about her. Toby the dog got off the bed, disturbing her thoughts. On light feet, she followed, finding the kitchen light was on, the fridge open.

"Ah, Molly," Sherlock straightened. He opened the jar of caviar, sniffing. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you," he stuck his finger in the jar, tasting it. "What is this?"

"Don't you read labels?"

"Tedious," he sniffed.

"It's caviar, you eat it on toast points."

"Mm. Yes, I'll have that," he handed her the jar.

"Keep it down, you'll wake the baby!" she hissed as he rattled through the shelves. He straightened, looking around her darkened flat. Mary was fast off on the fold-out couch, Rosie, surrounded by pillows, lay in the middle. Toby the cat sat in the baby carrier, purring.

"Oh,"

"Is the case over?"

"Obviously."

"Where is John?"

"Asleep on my sofa," Sherlock said.

"Is he alright?"

"He has a sprained wrist-"

"What?!"

"Molly, hush," Sherlock scolded softly. "He's perfectly fine, EMT's said he would be right as rain in the morning." He plucked at the left over dish of egg rolls and dumplings. "Were you saving these?"

"Not for anything special, go ahead," she waved her hand. "Are you sure John's fine?"

"Perfectly sound, nothing he hasn't hurt before."

"How was the case?" Molly asked. His tired eyes lit up then. "Here, come tell me in my room," she nodded for him to follow her. "You can eat in there, I don't mind." The toast popped up and Molly took down a plate. Sherlock piled it with his food and followed obediently, shutting the door behind them.

Around his food in hushed tones, Sherlock regaled Molly with his most recent case, and how it gave him ideas for several experiments. It was almost three by the time he finished, his plate long empty, he leaned against the wall, his legs hanging off the short end of her bed. Molly's legs were draped over his lap, her head propped up on a mound of pillows.

"The real trick will be keeping it suspended, I expect an average metal will only disintegrate, but if there was a way to coat it-" a gentle snore interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to see Molly fast asleep. Toby the dog's head was propped up on her stomach, he wagged his tail. Not terribly bothered, Sherlock shut his eyes, sinking instead into his mind palace.

* * *

**The Next Morning**

Molly woke up to a pleasant weight on her lap. She smiled to herself, reaching out to ruffle Toby the dog's fur.

"Morning," she yawned, tousling the dog's curls.

_Curls-_

Her eyes flew open, lifting her head to see that Toby the dog was off the bed, licking Sherlock's empty plate on the floor. In his usual place on her lap, Sherlock was sprawled, mouth open and drooling on her pajama shirt.

"Oh- um…bollocks…" Gently, very gently, she slid herself out from under the Consulting Detective, toppling onto the floor. "Cripes," she muttered, looking at the wet stain on her shirt. She knew Sherlock was exhausted after a case, but this was ridiculous. She could hear Rosie stirring, so with one last glance at Sherlock, she picked up the plate, tiptoeing from the room.

"Good morning, darling," she cooed softly, reaching for Rosamund. "Are you hungry? Let's see if mummy left something for you in the fridge." Taking the bottle off the shelf, she set it in a pan of warm water, cranking the dial on the stove. "Let's get you cleaned up and dressed for the day, and we'll see what else you can have for breakfast," she continued, quietly so as not to wake Mary, who rarely ever got to have a lie-in nowadays.

Sherlock missed something as soon as Molly left the room. In his sleep-addled brain, he wondered what was different.

" _Less…warm…"_ he thought. _"Don't much care for it."_ He could hear someone shuffling around. Probably Mrs. Hudson making his morning tea. Tea would be nice after almost a fortnight of coffee. He rolled onto his back, wriggling uncomfortably. His sheets were not very soft today. Cracking an eye open, he saw the lilac sheets and frowned. Mrs. Hudson was changing his bedclothes again…and getting the cheap quality. He rolled onto the pillow, expecting to find his drool-stain, only this pillow was not as firm as the one he'd been using last night. This one was too squishy. Also he could have sworn it smelled of lavender. _"Molly smells like lavender."_

Oh.

Well that explained it. Slowly, he sat up, eying the room. Apparently he'd fallen asleep on Molly's bed. His coat and scarf were draped over the hassock, his shoes he recalled leaving by the front door. He could smell breakfast and recalled that he was hungry. The case was solved, so he would eat again, especially if Molly was cooking. Getting to his feet, he shuffled out to the living room, coming upon an unexpectedly welcome sight.

Molly stood by the stove, Rosie on her hip, singing quietly as she set a small dish of oatmeal by the high-chair. She took the warmed bottle from the pan. It was something that seemed so domestic and natural, Sherlock was surprised that he found himself admiring Molly in such a way. She deserved to be a mother.

Turning, still smiling at Rosamund, Molly saw him in the doorway.

"Oh good, you're up, here," she crossed the room, handing him the baby and her bottle. "Take and feed her, will you, the oatmeal should be cool enough for her. I'll finish making everyone breakfast. Want anything in particular?"

"Toast," he replied automatically, shifting the child in his arms and setting her in the high-chair, clipping the tray in place.

"Did you figure out your experiment yet? What you need for it, I mean."

"Where did I leave off?" he frowned.

"Um…I remember something to keep the subject in place,"

"Oh, yes," he nodded. "A stationary suspension system."

"Like a harness?" she offered.

"Mm," he nodded, and then stopped where he was, Rosie's mouth open, waiting for the spoon of oatmeal that hung just out of reach. She reached forward with her fingers, digging it out of the utensil, stuffing it in her mouth. Sherlock, meanwhile, waiting for Molly to pale, he waited for her to reach for her grounding object or for her hands to shake. Instead, she went on getting breakfast, as if nothing had been said.

"Why not try something mounted on a stand, and set that in the solution, it'd be more stable," she suggested, laying strips of bacon in the pan. Beans were set on 'low' on the back burner. Sherlock didn't dare mention anything. What if it ended up triggering something? Perhaps it would be best left for another time. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he reached for it.

_It's alright to mention small accomplishments. –A_

Glancing at Molly's back, he turned to Rosie, finding she was already half-way through the cool oatmeal, happily squishing it between her fingers.

"You um…you don't seem panicked at all," he said finally.

"Why should I be?" Molly asked over her shoulder, puzzled.

"I mentioned – well with the-" he gestured to himself, tracing the outline of a harness around his person and then the ceiling.

"Oh!" she lifted her eyebrows. "No I didn't panic…did I?" she smiled a little. "I'm…I'm actually rather calm about it…" a glimmer of pride sparked in her eyes, and she almost laughed. "It's a little step," she wouldn't look him in the eye yet, she looked off to the side of his face. "Well I suppose because I wasn't thinking of it really, I was trying to find a solution to your problem."

"I think you have," he said. There seemed to be something more in his words, but Molly didn't quite know what he meant. She supposed he meant his experiment, but she decided not to dwell on it, savoring instead her small success.


	8. Chapter 8

"Sir, the CCTV's you requested on waiting for you." Mycroft set aside the file he was reading, picking up his tablet he swiped his hand across the screen, finding the videos waiting for him.

"Everything is in order?"

"Yes sir. She'll be departing her usual place at six sharp."

"Get the car ready."

"Sir."

Mycroft got to his feet, setting aside his case. Anthea looked up from her desk as he passed. Hearing her scuff her feet into her shoes, he shook his head.

"Not today, thank you, Anthea. I'm handling this one myself." That meant it was a family affair, ranging from dinner with his parents to Sherlock disabling all the CCTV cameras on his street. Judging by Mycroft's grim expression, she supposed it was the latter. She shrugged in response. "Anything for me to do, while I'm out?"

"Keep an eye on the CCTV's. Mind the traffic." She was on her feet immediately, heading to his office where the live-feed was set up.

"Sherlock wouldn't go back there, sir." Mycroft turned from settling the coat collar at his neck.

"One can never be too careful."

"Best of luck." She waved and he headed out.

Anthea had no idea what Mycroft was planning, but she set the headset on, finding the live-feed with audio. If Sherlock had indeed decided to indulge one of his old habits, depending on how long he'd been there, the hospital and a private room might have to be set up. She liked to know ahead of time so Mycroft wouldn't have to wait at A&E.

She tapped in the password, tapping her nails along the desk waiting for the system to load. Anthea was surprised to find, rather than one of Sherlock's old haunts, the rear exit of St. Barts, the one frequented by Molly Hooper. Frowning, she swiped to the next screen.

"Oh my God, you stupid man, what are you thinking?" she breathed.

* * *

"Goodnight Mike, thanks,"

"No problem Molls, have a good night." Rubbing her aching shoulder, Molly sighed. Tonight she'd break open the bath beads that Mrs. Hudson sent up a few nights ago. Friday night. She deserved a good long soak after the day she'd had. Ordinarily Toby accompanied her to work, but Sherlock needed him to track something for him on a case. Molly was rather proud of herself, she'd gotten through the day without a panic attack, she even sent Greg a picture of each and every cold storage drawer, proud that she'd checked them each herself. He replied with some cheeky message, and then called and left her a voicemail, declaring that he was very proud of her. Now if Sherlock would have Toby back by the evening, the night would be perfect-

"Doctor Hooper?" she stopped short, nearly running into the man who blocked the doorway. Automatically, her hands tightened around her purse strap. The door at the end of the hall opened and closed, another man she didn't recognize stood there.

"Are you with Mycroft Holmes?" she asked softly.

"If you'll follow me."

"Are you with Mycroft Holmes?" she repeated. The man took her arm and she writhed out of his grip.

"Doctor Hooper-" he grabbed her, the other man was already running towards them. Kicking, Molly bit the man who held her, managing to get a step away from him before the second one grabbed her by the arms. Struggling, she tried to pull away, to keep them from getting a grip. If she could just get her arms out of her coat, why did she zip the bloody thing?! If she could just get her purse strap over her head, she could get away; she willed the leather to break. Instead, she felt herself carted toward the locker room. Horror filled her eyes.

"No- no- NO!" half sobbing, she bit the hand over her mouth until she tasted blood. The man grunted, but he didn't move his hand. They kept her arms away from their groins, away from their stomachs, anywhere soft and vulnerable that she could hurt. Her screams muffled by the calloused hand, her mind racing, trying to find some way of getting free.

Through her blurry eyes, she saw the outline of a car, and she felt herself deposited into the backseat. The car pulled away, and Molly was left shaking on the backseat of the car. Covering herself, she curled herself into a ball, hiding her face.

"Interesting you cover your face rather than your vital organs,"

The familiar voice made her lift her head.

"M-Mycroft?" she gasped, disbelieving.

"Miss Hooper." When he didn't use her title, she felt as if it was his way of insulting her, as if he knew by not referring to her status in the medical world, he was removing the one thing she had to be proud of.

"Wh- what's happened? Why am I here?"

"Answers, Miss Hooper, you are here to answer questions."

"I don't understand," she shook her head, feeling herself tremble, her heart-rate increased, almost painfully so. "I can't breathe-" she choked. "Please- open a window-"

"Miss Hooper, were you or were you not seen with my brother over on Cheapside last week, a well-known spot for his…shall we say- unsavory habits?"

"What?" she barely heard what he'd said, her heart was thrumming in her ears. "I- I don't know, I thought- please open a window- please-" she searched for a button to crack the window but found none. Panicked, she jerked on the door handle but the handle only turned uselessly, the door refusing to budge. "Let me out, please," her voice rose in panic as she yanked harder on the door. She fumbled at the smooth surface of the door, searching for the lock to raise it manually. She thought frantically that this was not Mycroft. He wouldn't' do something like this to her. He just wouldn't. Would he?

"Doctor Hooper the door shall remain in place until you answer my questions."

"I don't _know_!" she cried. "I don't know anything!" Now forcing her body against the door, she slapped her palms against the glass.

"Doctor Hooper-" Mycroft tried, though by now, he realized it was too late to rationalize with the woman. Fight or flight had taken root in her heart and she was determined to get out now, lest something happen. What, Mycroft did not know, and he didn't quite understand. He was caught between morbid fascination and shock as he watched Molly, through her sobs and labored breathing kick his car window, sheer panic was her driving force. The pane cracked under her feet, one final kick broke the glass. Blinking quickly, he snapped out of his train of thought, reaching over to the unmarked switches at his elbow, alerting his driver to unlock the doors. Molly was already tumbling out of the window, through the broken glass. Her bag, an over-the-shoulder type thing, turned over on the street. She didn't even bother to grab what fell out, sprinting down the sidewalk as fast as her legs would carry her.

He knocked on the privacy glass, and the driver pulled away from the curb (Mycroft was glad to know his driver had at least some forethought to pull over when he heard the window break. By the time he reached the office, he'd figured out another scenario in which to get Doctor Hooper on her own so he could question her further. He strolled into his office, waiting for Anthea to start on his list of missed calls. When she didn't start speaking, he did:

"Anthea, call the garage, inform them of the broken window -" he hadn't even finished when he felt Anthea's hand make its mark on his right cheek. Momentarily stunned, he didn't even have a chance to wonder why before he felt the back of her hand on his left cheek and he felt himself stagger back, catching himself on his desk, his face throbbing.

The door of his office shut, he could see a member of security doing the deed, and he glared at the closing wood-paneling. Then again, they knew better than to fuss with Anthea when she was like this. The better question was why she was slapping him this time.

"You _idiot_ -" he caught her hand this time.

"Three would be repetitive-"

"Repetition serves the point," she yanked out of his grasp.

"I don't suppose you could have removed your rings," he pulled out his kerchief, dabbing at his upper lip.

"You sodding-" she didn't move to help him, and he was surprised as she flustered with her words. "You _kidnapped_ her off the _street_ -" tears formed as she rubbed circles on her temples. "You kept her locked in a car- you- massive berk, you- you, _schmuck_!" He might have been amused at Anthea taking the opportunity to fall back on her Jewish heritage. Rarely did she use the Yiddish words her mother gave her, nor one so especially vulgar. It was often amusing when she broke free from her poised, polished appearance to use the language of her childhood. This time though, Anthea was very nearly spitting fire at him, and Mycroft found no pleasure in the prospect of teasing her.

"Anthea, it was necessary-"

"No," she shook her head. " _No_. It is never necessary. Not with Molly. This wasn't business; it was some morbid fascination and revolting trick to see how she would react."

"She is keeping something from me to do with my brother. Anthea, do I need to remind you of what happened last time we could not find my brother for several weeks at a time?"

"And you really think, after the reception she gave him the last time he got high he'd _willingly_ go out and do it again?"

"You believe he's clean? That the diminutive Molly Hooper broke him free from his most favorite habit?"

"That diminutive woman also smashed through your bullet-proof window with just her feet."

"A woman's strength is generally based in her legs, rather-"

"God, you really are a schmuck." She stared at him, shaking her head. "For all your smarts, your being the 'genius behind the throne' you are an absolute moron when it comes to human nature."

"I believe that was the general idea when you called me a schmuck." He seated himself at his desk, unbuttoning his suit jacket and laced his hands over his stomach. "Unless you were referring to the alternate definition of the term and meant to call me a 'penis'."

"Has it occurred to you that they're _not_ doing anything of real importance and you're just annoyed because you weren't included?" he gave her a look.

"Do be serious."

"I am," Anthea seated herself on the edge of his desk, folding her arms. "It annoys you that Sherlock may have a life, that he may have a perfectly harmless secret that you know nothing about, and because he's your baby brother, he doesn't confide in you. You're constantly left out of the loop by the only person in the world who understands you." Mycroft said nothing. Anthea was playing dirty and they both knew it.

"Please enlighten me then," he said at last, calm and collected as ever. "What is going on between Molly Hooper and my brother?"

"That's not for me to say," Anthea replied, getting down off the desk. She straightened her skirt. "I'm taking the rest of the day and I'm going to see how she is doing."

"Anthea-" he stood as she turned to go. He sounded almost helpless, almost, and that's what gave her pause.

"You really don't know what you did wrong, do you?" he didn't shake his head, but he looked at Anthea. Her eyes were watery, and she took a shaking breath. "Then that's the worst part, you knew exactly what you were doing."

"Anthea-"

"I'll be in at my usual time tomorrow," she said, turning away to wipe her eyes. "It's up to you to sort this out." With that she turned and left, leaving Mycroft to contemplate the very depths of his actions.

By the time Anthea got to Baker Street, another member of the stationed security detail had caught up with her, handing her the things that had fallen out of Molly's purse. To Anthea's horror, the black opal, Molly's grounding stone was among them. Hurrying up the steps, she went directly to Molly's apartment. Knocking lightly, she turned the knob.

"Molly, its Anthea-"

"Shh!" a harsh whisper from the couch hissed at her and she crossed the kitchen, finding a surprising sight. There on Molly's short sofa, Sherlock was sprawled. Molly lay between his legs, head over his heart. Tracks of tears still reflected on her skin in the lamplight. Sherlock was humming quietly, tracing small circles on her back. Anthea didn't move, but she felt herself smile. Gently, the Consulting Detective moved, lifting Molly ever so carefully. She stirred. "Just bringing you to bed," he said quietly. "Toby will be right next to you, I'll make tea."

"Don't go," she murmured.

"I'm not leaving," he answered firmly, carrying her down the hall. "I'll leave the door open. You can listen for me."

"Okay." Exhausted, Molly didn't have the strength to fight. She was ashamed and angry, and not quite sure if both feelings should be directed at Mycroft or not. She allowed Sherlock to deposit her on her bed. Toby the dog jumped up after, lying down across her body, head on her belly. Her hand went automatically over his head, scratching his ears.

Once certain that Molly was settled, Sherlock returned to the kitchen. Anthea had already started tea, she handed him some money.

"What's this?"

"That's for when the delivery man get's here," she replied. "I called in food for you, she'll need to eat, she won't want to, but she should, it's all her favorites. Make sure she has something."

He nodded. "May I assume then that your presence here means you had nothing to do with my idiotic brother's sick sense of humor?"

"You may," she nodded. "I don't think it's his sense of humor at play this time," she shrugged, taking a seat. "He thought you and Molly were up to something, getting drugs for you or –" she waved her hand. "I don't know. It was foolish of him."

"Are you apologizing for him?" he gripped the back of the chair, and Anthea noted he struggled to maintain his calm. What Molly must have been like when she reached Baker Street, Anthea didn't know, but Sherlock must have been the one to find her.

"No." She was sure of that. Mycroft could apologize for himself if he felt so inclined, but Anthea wouldn't. Not this time.

"Good."

"How was she?" Anthea asked softly. "When you found her?" Sherlock didn't speak for a moment, his mind turning back to that afternoon.

_The outer door slammed shut, he could hear a key rattling in the lock. Toby barked, claws ticking across Sherlock's kitchen as he ran to the door, almost squeaking, excited. Sherlock got to his feet. Molly never slammed doors, unless she was mad. Door slamming usually happened in her own flat, not downstairs. When he didn't hear her feet on the stairs, he opened his door, poking his head out into the hall. Toby wriggled past his knees, trotting down the steps. The inner door stayed shut, and Toby sat, whining. Sherlock could see through the frosted glass Molly's form sitting on the floor. He didn't speak for a moment. The whole of London must have stopped, for he could hear every sob, every gasp, perhaps even her heartbeat, echoing in the hall. He rushed down the stairs, skipping the last three, pulling open the inner door._

_Molly sat curled up in the corner, knees against her chest, her keys between her fingers, knuckles bone-white as she shook._

" _Sh-" she scrabbled away from the door, seeing it open before she realized who it was._

" _Molly," he bent, reaching for her, his movements deliberately slow. People wanted to rush to give comfort, rushing was the last thing Molly needed. He took her hand, carefully prying the keys out of her hand. "The door is locked," he said softly. "You're safe now."_

" _There's no cameras?"_

" _No, not in Baker street," he said. "There aren't any." She allowed him to pick her up, for a moment he stood there in the entryway, cradling her. Her forehead against his neck, arms around his frame. "You're safe now."_

_He carried her up to her flat, helped her out of her coat. She stood, numb, in the kitchen until he tugged a chair out for her, guiding her to sit. He searched her purse, only to find the black opal was not in her purse. Had she been robbed? No. Her wallet, phone and cheque book were all accounted for. Her hand sanitizer, the disposable tissue box and bottle of lotion as well as an extra pair of socks were the only things missing aside from the black opal. The average thief would take her wallet and phone, not recognizing the stone to be more valuable than fast cash. He set the purse aside, bending down to help her out of her shoes. In the pattern on her shoes, he could see granules of bullet-proof glass._

"Sherlock-" he blinked quickly, finding Anthea was still waiting for an answer.

"She was…as expected."

"She told you?"

"I observed." Anthea nodded, requiring no explanation, and Sherlock, for once, didn't press it. "Planning on giving Big Brother the cold shoulder, are you?"

"For now. I'm too tired right now."

"I'm sure Molly wouldn't mind you sleeping here."

"No," Anthea was standing already. "You take care of her tonight, I'll see if her therapist has an opening on Monday for her." Sherlock nodded his thanks. He picked up the tea tray, heading down the hall. Anthea saw herself out, locking the doors behind her.

* * *

When she got home, she was surprised to find the staff had all gone home.

"I gave them the night off." She turned to see Mycroft in the doorway of his office. "Doctor Hooper is more herself, I trust?" Anthea glared at him.

"No thanks to you."

"I expect you'll be angry with me for quite some time, so before you go full-fledged into your 'cold-shoulder' routine, may I remind you that it should not interfere with your work, if at all possible."  
"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes, I will, as I always have, maintain my level of professionalism. You needn't fear." He sighed angrily.

"Anthea-"

"What?" she stopped at the stairs. He sighed heavily.

"My methods may have been incorrect, but my motive was far from misplaced."

"You knew her weaknesses, you knew what it would do to her, taking her that way, and you did it anyway." He said nothing. "I thought-" she lifted her hands, letting them fall again to her sides. "I thought you knew better than that Mycroft, with someone you knew, at any rate. You care for Molly, much as you may deny it, you do…you know your brother cares for her. If he was back to old habits, we could have sent Doctor Watson…or Inspector Lestrade…why- why would you do this to her?"

"I didn't do anything to her,"

"No-" Anthea was frustrated. "God, you really don't understand…you don't get it, the same way you didn't get why I had panic attacks, do I have to explain to you again why-" it was there that she stopped. Realization struck her, and Mycroft saw the change in her eyes from frustration to anger and outright hurt. "Were you lying to me? Were you just saying those things to get me to shut up? To get me to go back to my job like a good like assistant?"

"Anthea, really, you're blowing this all out of proportion-"

"Sherlock didn't understand why Molly acted the way she did, but he understood and really tried to do what he could to help her get back on her feet." Anthea interrupted him.

"Yes. Including removing every single one of the feeds from the interior of Baker Street," Mycroft groused.

"Has it occurred to you that he doesn't _need_ them anymore?"

"My brother is a child."

" _You're_ a child! You're both children! Except now, in light of recent events, I think you're the bigger one." It was a feeble insult and Anthea didn't know if she wanted to laugh or cry at that moment.

Mycroft sighed heavily, hands in his pockets.

"I am sorry, for whatever pain I caused Molly," he said at last.

"I know you are," she said finally, and he looked up, the hopeful glimmer in his eye did not last though. "But Mycroft…I know how you feel about her, you look at her like a sister. It's different, when you treat someone who you aren't related to like that. It means so much more, and if you can't-" she was twisting the ring on her finger. Mycroft felt his heart make a sickening flop. Anthea shut her eyes, taking a breath. "I thought-" another pause. She sniffed. "I thought because you knew about what happened to me, that you were at least trying to understand, that you cared."

"Anthea truly I-"

"But if you would do something like this to Molly," she shook her head, watery eyes looking anywhere but at him. "Then I don't know what would keep you from doing it to me." He watched, frozen as she removed her ring, holding it out to him. When he didn't take it, she took his hand, placing it in his palm and closing his fingers over it, her hand covering his.

Wordlessly, she turned back up the stairs, leaving him frozen on the landing.


	9. Chapter 9

When Sherlock awoke, he found Molly still asleep, her fingers wrapped around his shirt collar. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he pushed a handful of the sheets into her hand, extricating himself from her grasp. He could hear someone puttering around the kitchen, so on light feet he went to investigate. 

“Just me,” Mrs. Hudson called, hearing him stir. “Poor dear, she is bad off, isn’t she?” Sherlock looked back at Molly.

“Better than last night.”

“Your brother has plenty of explaining to do, I do hope you’ll give him what for.”

“Hm.” He took the mug of tea she’d set down for him, drinking gratefully as he scrolled through his messages. Only one was from Mycroft

_CCTV’s removed from Baker Street. Minimal security detail is in place. MH_

Sherlock tapped out a less than polite response, and Mrs. Hudson shook her head, having read it.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to do any harm to Molly, not really.”

“Mm. Just the same as I’m sure Hitler didn’t mean it when he said to kill _all_ the Jews.” He continued answering messages as he saw fit, saving some for later. “Mary is coming over,”

“Is she bringing the baby?”

“Mm,” he replied.

“Good. She’ll be a nice distraction for Molly. I’ll make biscuits, that will be nice.”

“Yes, nice,” Sherlock waved her off.

“Give a shout if Molly needs anything.”

Sherlock sat down in his chair, waiting for Molly to stir. He didn’t expect to see her before eleven, honestly. This recent panic attack would surely induce a bout of depression. He gritted his teeth, frustrated. She’d been doing well, perfectly well. Anthea reminded him the night before that there would always be setbacks. It didn’t make dealing with them any easier. As if on cue, his phone lit up. He checked it, deciding that it must be Anthea.

_Don’t let her sleep all day-A_

The second text, however, was a surprise.

_Help her keep her routine, have her dress. Helps with depression. –MH_

_Sod off. – SH_

* * *

Molly awoke to someone whistling. Opening her eyes, she found Sherlock in her closet, rummaging through her things.

“What are you doing?”

“Good, you’re up,” he had the look of someone who was up to something. He held up a blouse frowning at it, then at her.

“Not really,” she said, still confused as to why he was fussing with her clothes.

“You’re awake at any rate,” he shrugged. “Come on, Mrs. Hudson made tea.” She let him tug her into an upright position.

“What’s going on?”

“You’re coming with me. Lestrade has a case.”

“What? I don’t want to go on a case.”

“It’ll be fun, and distracting.” She fell back onto the mattress.

“No.”

“Setbacks are obviously going to happen, but you’re not going to let them drag you back.”

“Sherlock, please. Go away.”

The room was quiet. Arms over her face, Molly sighed heavily. She felt as if she had no strength. She did not want to get up. She didn’t want to go on a case. She didn’t want to run across London and be polite to people she didn’t know. She certainly didn’t want to get dressed. Everything felt as if it would be too much effort. She hated herself for panicking. She also hated the pain in her legs from running so far, and from kicking out Mycroft’s window. Thank heavens it was Saturday. She could sleep all weekend. Maybe watch television, if she felt like it. Mostly she just wanted to lie in bed and ignore anyone living. If she lay in bed all day, she could sleep. Sleep took no effort. It also meant she wouldn’t think about what happened the day before. She couldn’t bring herself to care about Sherlock pulling apart her closet, or Toby the cat dragging out one of her good bras. 

“Please go away,” she said at last. “Please Sherlock. Not today.” Defeat evident in her voice, Sherlock stayed where he was. He disliked this helpless feeling. Molly needed help but she wouldn’t accept it. 

“But I need you.” he said finally. It wasn’t a lie. He _did_ need her help. He also needed her to stop being depressed so he could see her smile again. “Tomorrow?” he tried, hopefully.

“Maybe tomorrow,” she shrugged. A small part of her smiled at the thought that Sherlock needed her. It made her feel good, but not good enough to move her to get out of bed. 

“Very well.” She felt him take her hands, pulling her upright again.

“I said maybe!” she groaned.

“You still need to get up. Take a shower and get dressed. Better do it now, before Mary comes. She’s not as nice as me.” She grumbled to herself, rolling out of bed. “Good girl,” he kissed her forehead, his smile kind and genuine. She sighed, this time half-hugging him.

“Thank you Sherlock.”

“You are welcome. Now go shower,” he gave her bottom a pat. “Hurry up.”

“Oi!” she swatted at him and he scampered away, grinning mischievously.

* * *

**Across London, Mycroft’s townhouse**

Anthea came downstairs, dressed and ready for work, surprised to find the staff was still not in the house. Not wanting particularly to see Mycroft, she removed her shoes, tiptoeing around the kitchen, getting herself breakfast.

“I’m sorry.” She jumped, bumping into the counter. Mycroft sat at the kitchen table; apparently he had all night, judging by the circles under his eyes. His sleeves were rolled up around his elbows, an untouched glass of brandy stood near his elbow. “I never…I didn’t encourage you to talk about what happened, and it was selfish of me not to do so.” She sighed, turning away.

“Mycroft I really don’t want to talk-“

“Please,” he said quietly. She looked at him then, and he lifted his head so she could see him fully. Her eyes scrutinized his appearance. Mycroft’s job was to lie, and he did so brilliantly. Anthea knew when he lied, and she cursed the hope she felt in her heart when she saw he was truthful that moment. He also rarely said ‘please’, and it was that word that caught her.

“Why now?” she asked finally. “Why not when I needed to speak to someone, why not when I was having panic attacks and sitting in cupboards to wait out flashbacks?”

“I didn’t-“ he paused, frustrated. His hands shook, and she frowned. Mycroft was not one for emotions. He never lost his temper, not really. Now though, she saw fear in the Ice-Man’s eyes, and his frame trembled. “I didn’t know how to help you,” he admitted. “I wanted – I wanted you to be yourself again and I didn’t know what to do. I disliked seeing you so unlike yourself, so hateful of yourself when the situation was clearly not your fault.”

“Who’s was it, then?” she asked, frowning. While she knew the fact that she was raped was not her fault, she couldn’t understand what he was getting at.

“It was mine.”

The room was still.

“What?”

“I sent- the mission you were sent on…there was no extraction plan. I was not allowed to select who would go. I was told not to inform you of any of the dangers, nor of the lack of security. I was, however, given a choice, to allow the mission to continue or not, in which case the results of that business in North Korea would be very different.”

“You prevented a war.”

“Not without losing something very precious to me,” he answered. Anthea didn’t move, she didn’t dare. Mycroft did not reveal personal feelings, despite her anger at him, she made herself keep still. Mycroft took a breath, careful of his words. “I fully expected you to return, which you did, I had no doubts you could not get out of the prison camp, but…” he licked his lips, finding it difficult to control his emotions. “You were changed, you were so changed, you were afraid of me, afraid of everyone.” He looked at her finally. “You were the first person in my life who was not afraid of me, and when you came back, everything was changed and I didn't know how to fix it.”

“I never stopped trusting you,” Anthea said at last.

“Not until last night,” he finished. “I’ve had all night to think about my actions,” he said carefully. He stood now, looking at the tabletop. “If…if someone had done that to you…they would be…I don’t know what I would do…I would kill them myself.”

“Why did you do it?” Anthea asked, her voice almost pleading. “You _knew_ the affect it would have on her, you _knew_ it would frighten her, and that it would trigger her panic attacks.”

“I didn’t mean it to go that way, truly,” he insisted. “I never meant-“ he sighed, frustrated. “I honestly did need to inquire after Sherlock. My men are not tactful…” there he stopped. That part was a lie. He would not lie to Anthea. “I _was_ angry with her,” he admitted finally. “I was angry. I had received information, _proof_ of her taking Sherlock through his old haunts. I had reason to believe that something was going on, and with my brother’s past, I could not leave it alone.”

“But you-“

“I am not excusing the situation,” he interrupted her. “It is no excuse for what I have done to Molly, nor a reason for you to forgive me, but before you leave, I wanted you to at least know that I had no intention of harming her, nor did I realize the scale of her panic attacks.”

The kettle whistled, startling her and she switched it off, setting it aside. “There is enough here, if you want some,” she said finally. Turning to face him, she saw him reach into his pocket, holding something in the palm of his hand.

“I can keep it safe…” he said. His voice was soft, raw. “Until you want to wear it again.”

“What if I don’t want to wear it again?” he met her gaze, steady. The pain in his eyes was unmistakable.

“I hope that isn’t the case,” he replied. “But if it is, then I will keep it, to remind me of what we had, however brief it was.”

“And that you were the cause of it ending?”

“And that I was the cause of it ending.” He repeated, his voice was hollow, his expression bleak. He saw no hope in himself, no reason for her to trust him, and he seemed very lost.

“Will you apologize to Molly?” Anthea asked.

“If she wants me to, if she will allow me to,” he nodded.

“She will, but she’ll need time.”

“She will have it,” Mycroft promised. Anthea set her cup down, turning away from the counter. After a long moment, she crossed the room.

“Look at me,” she said and he lifted his eyes to meet hers. “If you ever do something like this again, if you are ever so careless with her, with me, there is no power on Earth that will stop me from leaving, and I will not return.” He raised a brow, nodding, knowing very well she meant it.

“Understood.” Her features relaxed a little, taking his hand; she once against closed his fingers over the gold band in his palm.

“Keep it safe for now,” she said. “You’re half-way to earning me back, but there’s someone else you need to apologize to.”

The sudden embrace took her by surprise, the gentleness with which he kissed her moved her greatly, and Anthea let him, kissing him back, squeezing the nape of his neck.

“I will,” he murmured. “I promise you I will.”

Anthea knew her husband had cried probably all of four times in his life. He did not shed tears needlessly, and she felt her heart lurch, seeing him do so for her. Kisses were pressed to her hands, her neck and cheeks, desperate to prove himself, to prove his love and earn back her trust and affection. She held him tightly, returning his embrace before she stepped back in his arms.

“Go and clean up,” she said, wiping her eyes. “We’ve still got a day’s work to do.” He smoothed his shirt, trying to make himself presentable.

“Yes,” he nodded.

“I’ll see that your tray is ready, and I’ll call the staff, have them come in this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” he pressed a kiss to her knuckles, smoothing her skin before heading upstairs.

* * *

At Baker Street, Molly lay on the sofa, trying to talk herself into doing something productive. Everyone said ‘When you fall off a horse, you’ve got to get right back on again’.

Well everyone could just sod off.

“Take Rosie for a minute,” Mary said, passing her the baby.

“Where are you going?” Molly asked.

“The toilet, if you’re so interested,” she replied dryly.

“Sorry, yes, come here, lovey,” Molly took the child, smiling a little as Rosamund gurgled happily, her little hands patting Molly’s cheeks. Toby the dog lollopped across the room, coming to sniff the baby, tail wagging. Molly smiled at Rosie, tickling her. She _was_ glad in the end that Mary had come over. Sherlock decided to bring John along on his case and Mary was good at keeping Mrs. Hudson from fussing too much. Molly disliked being cosseted when she was depressed, but she didn’t know how to tell the kindly old woman to please leave her alone. Mary did as she pleased, and didn’t ask questions, although somehow she knew all about what had happened the night before. Mary spent the day thinking up ways to get back at Mycroft. Molly was too tired to think about the situation, but she knew she didn’t want to actually hurt him. 

* * *

**Monday, Dr. Bremen’s Office**

“What would you like to do to him?” asked Doctor Bremen.

“I don’t want to do anything to him,” Molly shrugged.

“Is there anything you’d like to say to him?” she shrugged.

“I want to know why he did what he did…if he’s angry at me, and for him to know how much it affected me.”

“Is Mycroft someone important to you?”

She paused then. Mycroft Holmes was someone she didn’t know very well, someone she’d always been rather wary of simply because he rarely spoke to her and he gave her the impression he didn’t like her. However she’d also always known he loved his brother dearly, and she knew she could trust him, even if he was a little frightening.

“I suppose he is,” she shrugged. “I guess I’ve always known he’s a safe person. That is if I were in trouble I know he would help if I asked him.”

“Knowing that, how do you feel about what Mycroft did?”

“I’m angry…I’m confused,” she sighed. “I’m tired. I’m exhausted; I don’t even want to think about it right now.”

“You must eventually.”

“I don’t want to see him, not for a while. I can’t go to work right now, I’m so- I’m mad!” she burst out finally. “I was finally able to go to work, to really…be capable of something again, everything was fine and then he just- he ruined it!”

“Tell me about what happened,”

“You already know,” she sniffled, wiping her eyes.

“I know what Anthea told me, I would like to hear what _you_ remember.”

Her voice trembled in places, but she managed to recount what had happened. She was glad at least she didn’t cry.

“Did he seem to you malicious in his intent?” Bremen asked when she finished.

“I don’t remember what he said, or what he looked like,” Molly answered honestly. “I just couldn’t understand why he was doing it. He’d been so helpful to me before.”

“What would move him, do you think, to do something so cruel?”

“Are you defending him?”

“No,” Bremen shook his head. “On the contrary. You yourself have stated several times in the past, Mycroft Holmes has been an upstanding example, and while he rarely speaks to you personally he has shown that he thinks very highly of you. It is unlike a man so dedicated to his ‘family’, so to speak, that he would suddenly turn on them.”

“He would if it was for the good of England,” she said, unblinking. “Or if Sherlock were in trouble.”

“Is Sherlock in trouble?”

“Not that I know of,” Molly shrugged. “I don’t mean to be rude but,” she sighed heavily.

“You’re tired,” Bremen finished, understanding. He shut his notebook. “No more for today, but do keep doing what you’re doing, get up, get dressed, and keep your routine, if you can.”

“I can’t go back to work,” she shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Have you thought about taking some time off?”

“And do what?” She asked. Bremen shrugged.

“Anything you like. Travel, have a two-week long lie-in if you want. Do what makes you happy. You’ve been working for so long to achieve your normal routine; you’ve suffered a minor set-back. Take a break, get your bearings, and when you come back, your routine may seem a little easier to tackle again.”

* * *

**Baker Street**

Sherlock was hurrying down the stairs as Molly was coming up.

“Oh good, you’re still here,” she said. “I’ve got some news-“

“It’ll have to wait, triple murder, Greg claims it to be an eight on my scale, and I’d be inclined to disagree with him except for the jammie dodgers and pencils.”

“What?” Molly frowned confused.

“I’ll be back late, coffee if you’re up!” he kissed her without a second thought, hurrying out the door. “Don’t wait up Mrs. Hudson!” he bellowed.

“He does that a lot,” Mrs. Hudson shrugged, she’d been in her doorway, and she’d seen the entire exchange. “Come sit with me a while, you can share your news with me, if you’re allowed.”

“Yeah of course I can,” Molly smiled; she glanced at the shut door, still a little shaken by the kiss she’d received.

“Oh, this came for you, by the way.” Mrs. Hudson held out a cream colored envelope.

“What is it?”

“I’ve no idea. A card I expect.”

“Who delivered it?”

“The secretary of that wretched man.” Mrs. Hudson had taken to calling Mycroft ‘that wretched man’. Molly had no idea what the envelope contained, and she supposed she wouldn’t want to find out in her landlady’s flat. She tucked it away in her purse for safekeeping, to open later. In-between bites of cake and discussing travel plans, Molly quite forgot about the letter.


	10. Chapter 10

**One Week Later**

Her request for time off was accepted, Stamford seemed eager to see her take a holiday.

“It’s been ages, I hate to say ‘I’m glad to see you go’, but I am, in the best sense,” he said cheerfully. “It’s been a long year.”

“A long four years,” she corrected, referring to Sherlock faking his death and the aftermath that ensued.

“True enough,” he agreed. “Any plans?”

“I dunno. Think I might skip out of town for a couple weeks,” she shrugged.

“Somewhere nice I hope.”

“I think so.” Molly smiled.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Mike laughed. “Have a wonderful time, remember it’s no trouble, your taking time off.”

“Thanks Mike,” she hugged him quickly before gathering her work up.

“I’ll try to keep Sherlock from bothering you,” he called after her.

“I’ve already told him I’m going on holiday, apologies in advance if he’s naughty,” Molly laughed.

“What do you mean ‘if’?” Mike hollered after her, laughing.

* * *

“Have you decided on where are you going?” Mary asked, swaying back and forth with Rosamund on her hip. Molly had a secretive smile, almost embarrassed. A suitcase sat open on the bed, half of Molly’s closet sat around it, yet to be folded.

“Peru.”

“Really?!” Mary looked excited. “Oh that’s marvelous!”

“It took a fair about of planning; Anthea helped me set it all up yesterday. She knows plenty of places for me to check out.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I’ll stop for a few nights in Lima, and take a bus-tour of the city. After two days there, I’m flying to Puerto Maldonado. After that I’ll have four days in the Amazon, I’ll do some hiking, maybe go on a kayaking tour.”

“Gonna try that zip-lining thing?”

“I might,” Molly shrugged. “I’ll take pictures and keep everyone updated.”

“Good,” Mary nodded, bouncing Rosie a little. “What will you do without your Auntie Molly? Hmm?”

“Oh she’ll be fine,” Molly gathered Rosamund in her arms and Mary took to folding clothes into the suitcase.

“When’s your flight?”

“Tomorrow night, half-past-eight.”

“Oh good, we can do dinner tonight,” Mary said. “I’ll call John and Sherlock, have them meet us.”

“I don’t know if Sherlock will come, I think he’s upset that I’m traveling.”

“You finally told him?”

“The day before yesterday, when he finished his case.”

“How’d he take it?” Mary asked.

“I’m not sure,” Molly frowned. “He sort of had that expression he gets, you know when something confuses him, and it looks like his brain is rebooting?” Mary laughed, nodding. “He told me later that he supposed I would have a nice time, so I guess he’s trying to be happy for me.”

“That’s a start,” Mary agreed, lifting her eyebrows in surprise. “It’s wonderful that you’re going, and if he can’t see that it _is_ good for you, then he’s just being rotten.”

“I think it’s more to do with me going alone.”

“Are you okay, traveling alone?”

“I don’t see how I can’t,” Molly shrugged. “Mrs. Hudson isn’t exactly one to backpack across Peru, Anthea flat out told me she isn’t the outdoorsy type, and Rosie is too small to go on a trip like this if you and John were to come with me.” Mary nodded.

“Well, Sherlock will get over it. It’s only for a few weeks.”

“Oh, if we’re going to dinner, I’ve got little coupons-“ Molly dug through her purse, setting things aside. An envelope flitted to the floor and Mary picked it up.

“What’s this?” she asked and Molly looked up from her purse.

“Oh, that, Anthea dropped it off a week ago, I guess it’s from Mycroft.”

“And you haven’t opened it?” Molly shrugged.

“I will, later, leave it on my dresser.” Burning with curiosity, Mary set it aside, wondering. To be honest, Molly had forgotten about the letter. She supposed it was an apology. He was probably waiting for her to reply.

Good.

She swallowed the small guilty feeling that welled up and shut her suitcase, casting one last glance at the letter. She turned to Mary, ignoring her curious expression.

“Should I change? Where are we going to eat?”

“John says he feels like a chip shop, but pub would do,” Mary replied, scrolling through her messages.

“Anything sounds good, I’m starved,” Molly grabbed her purse.

* * *

Dinner was fun, more than fun. John always made Molly laugh, and when he was with Mary, it took very little banter between the two of them before tears were rolling down her cheeks as she shook with laughter. Sherlock sat at the corner of the table, actually being civil. Greg finished his shift and met them at the restaurant.

“I heard you were traveling, and I stopped off to get you something,” he handed her the gift bag and Molly pressed his cheek, sincerely thanking him. She dug through the tissue-paper, not seeing Sherlock glare at Lestrade, who wiped the lip-gloss from his cheek, laughing.

“What’dja get?” John asked. Molly handed Rosie the colorful tissue paper, seeing the child reach for it. She squealed, waving the paper, laughing. Molly’s reaction to whatever was in the bag was almost equal to Rosamund's regarding the tissue paper. She held aloft an ear-hat, practically cackling with glee. Sherlock scowled and John and Mary roared with laughter.

“So you’ll remember all of us while you’re away,” Molly put the hat on, beaming. “Now, when you’re at a famous monument, you gotta take a picture with the hat,”

“Done,” she shook Greg’s hand, still laughing. “I love it, what a great idea!”

Sherlock studied the Detective Inspector throughout the remainder of the meal, at one point he and Molly spoke quietly, for almost forty-five minutes, apparently about a very private topic. Their voices were low. Pretending to be occupied with Rosie, Sherlock easily watched them, studying their body language. He read nothing overtly intimate, excepting that nobody could hear what they were saying. Molly wore a concerned frown, and Greg seemed weepy at times. At the end of the night, she hugged Greg, squeezing hard.

“Call me, you know, it’s perfectly alright, if you need to talk,” he heard her say to the DI.

“Thanks Molls. Have a safe trip, text or call when you land, be safe.”

“I will thanks.” John and Mary bid them goodnight.

“We’ll meet you at the airport,” Mary promised. “Let us know if you need anything, it’s no trouble.”

“I will, thank you, goodnight.” More kissing and hugging. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Finally, Molly had her coat on, gift bag on her arm, take-away dessert in her hands, she smiled at Sherlock.

“Share a cab or would you rather walk?”

“Cab,” he said, already striding out to the sidewalk, lifting his arm for a taxi. “What were you and Greg so intimately discussing?”

“His daughter,” Molly climbed into the car, scooting over for him to slide in after her. Sherlock frowned, shutting the door.

“His- what?”

“He’s divorced, he’s got custody of his daughter,” Molly said. “He was worried because she seemed depressed. He needed some advice, at least, girl advice.” Sherlock looked confused and she squeezed his arm, trying not to giggle. “Menstruating. She’s starting to menstruate. He just needed to be filled in on what she’ll need, among other things.”

“I believe the internet is a handy resource when one doesn’t know what to do,” he sniffed.

“Sometimes it’s better, asking a friend,” Molly shrugged in response.

“Is that what you and Greg are?” he paused. “Friends?”

“Yes of course,” she looked at him, a little baffled. “What else would we be?” he didn’t answer, he only pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, looking out the window.

“I didn’t get you a gift,” he said suddenly.

“That’s alright, you came to dinner, that’s enough,” she squeezed his elbow. “I’m going to miss you, you know.” He covered her hand before she could take it away.   
“And I, you.” Sherlock wouldn’t look at her, quite certain that if he did, he would not be able to restrain himself from kissing her.

* * *

He saw her up to her flat, taking down Toby’s leash. If he was home and if it was past eleven, he took Toby for his evening walk so Molly wouldn’t have to venture out after dark.

“You haven’t opened Mycroft’s letter,” he said, clipping the leash to the dog’s collar. Molly looked up from setting her cheesecake in the fridge, about to ask how he knew and then shook her head.

“No, I haven’t.”

“You should,” he said, looking almost loath to say it.

“Why?”

He had no answer at first.

“Did he say something to you?” she asked.

“No,”

“Did Anthea?”

“Nope.”

“Then why-“

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” he interrupted her. He looked rather pointedly at her room, the dresser visible from the doorway where the envelope sat. Before Molly could ask anymore, he hurried down the steps, out the front door.

* * *

Out in the cool summer air, Sherlock breathed deeply, turning over the events of that afternoon.

_“You still haven’t apologized to Molly.” Mycroft looked up from his laptop to see Sherlock standing in the doorway._

_“I sent her a letter, I thought it easier than showing my face.”_

_“Easier for you, you mean,” he strode all the way into the office, plopping down in the chair opposite his brother._

_“No,” Mycroft shook his head. “Anthea pointed out that my forcing my presence on Molly before she is ready to see me may very well trigger another panic attack.”_

_“How very insightful of you,” Sherlock replied smarmily. “I suppose you do everything that Anthea tells you.”_

_“Same as you and Molly,” Mycroft replied evenly. “Seems we’ve each found a goldfish.”_

_“Why did you go after Molly?”_

_“I told you,”_

_“No, you told me what Anthea said,” Sherlock interrupted. “Why did you?”_

_Wordlessly, his brother got to his feet, shutting the office door. He went to his desk, finding the tablet. Handing it to Sherlock, he pocketed his hands._

_“My information regarding your whereabouts on those dates,” he nodded to the CCTV’s that were queued up on the tablet’s screen. “Was disturbing, and I set out to investigate.” Sherlock studied the screen, watching the black-and-white video feed. Two figures, one of himself and Molly, walking through Cheapside, looking at derelict buildings, several were familiar to him, and he felt a twinge of guilt and a strong desire, which he pushed down deep. He was not weak any longer._

_“She took me there,” Sherlock nodded. “I was weak one day, and she sat with me. She talked about why it was that I felt I needed to get high.”_

_“She took you to your old haunts,” Mycroft said. “What did you do there?”_

_“Looked around. Called the police to flush out the places,” he shrugged. “After which she kissed me and told me that if I ever felt like I needed a fix, that I was to come to her, and she would help me.”_

_“What did she mean by that?”_

_“She meant only that, I expect same as John, or you. She understood that you cannot be everywhere at once, and wanted to help. She likes to feel needed. Also, which I am sure is news to you, she cares for me.” Mycroft glanced up, seeing the doorway was opened again, Anthea waiting nearby, her eyes soft as she regarded him. Sherlock got to his feet, back to the door. “Hang the letter, brother dear. Man up and apologize to her face. It’s the least you can do.” With that he walked out, nodding to Anthea as he passed._

* * *

**221c Baker Street**

Molly opened the letter, ignoring her phone ringing. It was probably just Sherlock, complaining that he forgot a plastic bag.

The letter was hand-written in the elder Holmes neat script, and Molly thought to herself that no one ever hand-wrote anything anymore.

_“My dear Doctor Hooper,_

_What can I say but offer my sincerest apologies (which you have every right to disregard). My behavior was inexcusable, the situation entirely unnecessary. I have, for the better half of the week, looked over my actions of that particular day with regret, a feeling that those closest to me will often declare myself to be lacking. I can only ask your forgiveness, and humbly beg your pardon. If this note is in any way unwelcome, you have only to speak to Anthea and she will deliver the message to me. If, however, you find yourself in trouble of any kind on your travels, do not hesitate to call the number attached. Despite what people say, you are braver than you believe Molly Hooper, and quite brilliantly soldiering on through the trials of this year past._

_Respectfully,_

_Mycroft Holmes”_

Molly sat for a long time, looking at the letter. Mycroft didn’t apologize. The Holmes brothers never apologized. Well, Sherlock hardly ever did. But she had always been sure Mycroft only apologized without ever meaning it. It was in Molly’s nature to take an apology and believe it to be sincere. Still, she had a hard time believing Mycroft Holmes would actually write her a letter. He certainly didn’t use his good stationary on the likes of her (monogrammed and all, the posh). According to Anthea, he was trying. He was uncertain how to proceed, so he was falling back on the etiquette he knew best. The phone rang again, and she jumped startled.

“Hello?” she answered it.

“Oh…you’ve read the letter already.”

Molly looked at the stationary in her hands.

“Yes I just did.”

“He wanted to apologize in person,” Anthea said. “But he thought that your seeing him before you were ready might not be good.”

“That was thoughtful of him. Less-so was our meeting before-hand,” Mycroft, who sat beside Anthea, was taken aback by the coldness in her tone. “Well…anyway it was nice of him.”

“May I tell him so?”

“If you like.” There was a pause on Anthea’s end of the line.

“He would like to wish you well on your travels, and wants to know if it would be welcome.”

Molly hesitated.

“If he wants to.” There was some rustling, a hand covered the receiver, and she heard someone clear their throat.

“Doctor Hooper, I only meant to wish you well, and that I hope your holiday proves fruitful.”

“Thank you Mycroft.” That was what she could manage, and what she felt was truthful enough. “Did you mean it?” she blurted out. “The letter?”

“I assume you mean the apology-“

“No, I meant- the other bit…the end.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, seeming somewhat taken aback at her disbelief. “Well…it isn’t often my window is kicked out.”

“I won’t apologize for it.”

Mycroft felt as if he’d entered some alternate reality where he was the shy, awkward introvert who had trouble constructing genuine sentences. Molly, for her part, was not sure what to do with an honest Holmes. It was very bizarre, having one unsure of what to say.

“There is no need to apologize,” Mycroft said. “It was entirely expected, though…not by myself at the time.”

“Yes. Clearly.” More awkward silence until he cleared his throat again.

“I did mean what I wrote, Doctor Hooper, you are handling the entire unfortunate situation with a good deal of grace and a brave face, when many others would merely sit on their hands.”

“Sitting never accomplished anything.” A chuckle from his end, he sounded genuinely amused, and Molly felt as if she’d accomplished something.

“Quite right,” he said. Someone was speaking on his end in a low voice. “Anthea would like to speak to you so I will bid you goodnight Doctor Hooper.”

“You may call me Molly,” she said. A pause, she could tell he was deducing her meaning. She couldn’t bring herself to say she forgave him quite yet, but giving him permission to use her given name was a start.

“Thank you, goodnight, Molly.”

“Goodnight.” The phone was given back to Anthea, who quietly gave her excuses, and Molly, hearing Sherlock thump around the kitchen, hung up as well.

Anthea reached for her husband, gently kissing him. Apologies did not come easily for the Holmes men. Shame was not an emotion that Mycroft dealt with, and while Anthea unequivocally felt he deserved to be so humbled, she understood it was an effort for him, and he was handling it extremely well.

“You’d like to say something smarmy,” Anthea said, seeing the tiniest of glints in his eyes.   
“Yes, but I don’t think you’d appreciate it, besides it would do little to help the situation, so I’ll keep it to myself.”

“He can be taught,” Anthea teased.

“Believe it or not,” he replied.

“You’re still a Schmendrick.”

“Is that the Yiddish or the Hebrew translation?” She quirked a smile.

“Yes,” she answered against his mouth and he forgot to be insulted.

* * *

**Baker Street**

“John and Mary will meet us at the airport,” Sherlock said. Molly looked around her flat, then at her cat and dog. “They’ll be fine,” he reassured her. “Mrs. Hudson is going to look after them.”

“I know,” she scratched Toby the cat’s ears and ruffled Toby the dog’s fur once more before reaching for her backpack. Sherlock took it before she could even lift it, slinging it onto his shoulder.

“Cab’s waiting,” he said and headed out the door, down the stairs.

“Wish you were coming,” Molly said finally. Sherlock opened the door of the cab.

“Whatever for? What would I do in Peru?”

“Lots of things,” she said. “There’s tours-“

“Dull.”

“Kayaking,”

“Boring.”

“Zip-lining.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s when you’re hooked into a harness; you go swinging through the jungle, or through a canyon, wherever it’s hooked up.”

“Hm.” A pause. “Will you do that?”

“Yup, already made a note of it on my itinerary.” She showed him the list on her phone.

“There isn’t much on here.”

“Just points of interest. Once I get to Puerto Maldonado I’m going to backpack across the country.” Sherlock quirked a brow at this.

“Oh?”

“Mmhm.”

“I wouldn’t think you so adventurous.”

“What sort of holiday did you think I’d take?” he shrugged.

“Lounging type,” he replied after a moment. “On a beach with your stupid novels-“

“Oi-“

“In a bathing suit that does nothing for your figure.”

“Hey!”

“Ow!” he rubbed his ear where she’d pinched him. “I meant that the cut of your suit is not flattering, Molly. You should have bought the bikini you tried on.”

“I- what?! How do you know I tried on that two-piece?”

Sherlock had that same look as when his brain couldn’t quite compute something.

“Sherlock- hey-“ she flicked his ear again and he blinked quickly.

“Sorry. Bathing- uh- two-piece- oh the airport, look there’s John and Mary’s car.”

Before she could ask again how he knew about the bikini, she was pulled from the car, Sherlock hurrying her into the airport. Once through security, they sat down to wait with her for her flight to board. Molly held Rosamund, cradling her goddaughter.

“Oo, I’m gonna miss this one,” she murmured.

“You’ll only be gone for a few weeks,” Mary smiled.

“Almost a month,” Sherlock huffed. John glared at him.

“It’ll fly by, and then you’ll be wishing I’d stayed away longer,” Molly said cheerfully. “Think about all the experiments you’ll get to do, and you’ll have the use of my fridge and oven.”

“Hm.”

“I heard Mycroft called you,” Mary said. “How’d that go?” Molly shifted Rosie on her lap, her little palms slapping Molly’s legs as she wriggled.

“Well enough,” Molly shrugged. “He apologized, twice, once in a letter, and over the phone, wished me well on my travels. It was nice of him.”

“I’m sure he meant it,” John said reassuringly. None of them really knew that for certain, but they felt like someone should say it.

“It was nice of him,” Molly repeated. “I am glad he called. Maybe when I get back I’ll make him take me to tea or something.” Mary and John laughed, and Sherlock smirked.

“Make him take you to Speedy’s,” John chortled.

 _“Flight 507 London, England to Buenos Aires Argentina now boarding-“_ a crowd of people stood up, and Molly reached for her bag.

“Oh gosh,” Mary suddenly wiped her eyes again, smiling. “It’s just nerves, they’re happy tears, I promise,”

“Nerves, hormones, whatever-“ Sherlock shrugged.

Molly looked, startled from the consulting detective to Mary. “Oh- Mary Watson- did you- are you pregnant again?!”

Mary laughed, embarrassed. “We didn’t want to say and ruin all the excitement of your trip,” John said. “If we told you, you’d cancel all your plans.”

“I would,” Molly nodded. “Oh, this is wonderful-“ Sherlock watched her hug the Watson’s, the lingering pain behind her smile seemed glaringly obvious to him.

_Happiness_

_Excitement_

_Trepidation_

_Disappointment_

_Jealousy_

Blinking quickly, Molly brushed her tears aside, kissing Rosie once more.

“Be safe,” Mary said, hugging her tight. “Call us when you get there.”

“If you don’t," John added, "I can’t promise a consulting detective will track you down in the middle of the Amazon.”

Molly laughed, agreeing. Finally, she turned to Sherlock, forcing herself to smile through her tears at him. Mary tugged John aside, pretending to watch the crowds.

“Well,” she shrugged. “Wish me luck,”

“Good luck.”

“Will you hug me goodbye?” he did so, and he even pressed her cheek. “I still wish you were coming with me,” she said softly.

“You’ll have to tell me how it is, perhaps I’ll go, one day.”

_“Final boarding for flight 507, London England to Buenos Aires, Argentina-“_

She took a steadying breath, picking up her backpack and headed to the ticket counter, handing over her boarding pass. One final look back, before she disappeared through the doors and down the ramp.

Sherlock stared at the closed doors, watching through the window. John came to stand beside him, hands in his pockets.

“Why don’t you go with her?” he asked. “Still got time.”

“She’s not ready for that, John,” they watched the plane from the windows, taxiing down the runway. “Anyway it’s too late.” John pursed his lips, leaning his back against the railing.

“It’s never too late.”

* * *

**18 Hours Later,**

**Belmond Miraflores Park, Lima, Peru**

Molly sighed, covering her yawn as she waited at the counter.

“You’re all checked in Miss Hooper,” the man said, handing her a key. “May we send someone for your bags?”

“Oh no, thank you, it’s just the one, I can manage.”

“Your room has been prepared for you,” the man went on. “We hope you are comfortable here.”

“Thank you.” Heading for the elevators, Molly tried to feel bad that she didn’t at least attempt some of the Spanish phrases she’d learned on the plane, but she was terribly jet-lagged and couldn’t bring herself to genuinely feel guilty. She’d use them tomorrow. For now, she could enjoy being spoiled in the five-star hotel that Anthea was happily paying for before she started on her four week trek across Peru.

Shutting and locking her door behind her, she kicked off her shoes, sighing delightedly. The lights were on, waiting for her. The suite was spacious, with a commanding view of the ocean. The sliding glass door was open to the balcony and she cross the room to take in the sights.

“Very pretty, isn’t it?”

Slowly, Molly turned, in the lounge chair, Sherlock was sprawled hands behind his head, eyes shut. He cracked an eye open.   
“Good, it’s you this time.”

“This time?” she couldn’t help but ask. He swung his legs over the chair, getting to his feet.

“May have frightened the maid…” he waved his hand, shrugging. “She’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

“So…what are you doing here?”

“Joining you?” he queried. “That is if I’m still welcome to.” She looked at his pressed suit, only slightly wrinkled from the flight. He seemed apprehensive, which was very unlike him.

“Were you on my plane?” she asked.

“No, you took off before I could get a ticket. Used Mycroft’s jet.”

“He has a jet?”

“Well…his…sort of. He shares it.”

“With who?” Sherlock avoided that question altogether. Molly shrugged. “Are you sure you want to be here?”

“Of course I am,” he said.

“Because I’m still backpacking across Peru, I’m not changing plans because you hate walking.”

“I’m merely tagging along,” he said. “Whatever happens, happens.”

“What would happen?” he shrugged in response, suddenly awkward. He looked over the balcony.

“The hotel has a pool,” he said suddenly. She looked as well.

“It does.”

“Care to go swimming?”

“Do you swim?”

He puffed out his chest, prideful. “I am more than proficient. I would have been on the school swim team but they were all morons.”

“Well I wasn’t on any swimming team, but it is hot, so yes, I’ll go.”

“Good. Going to my room to change. Meet you back here in ten.”

Molly reached for her bag, digging through her carefully folded clothes. She’d had a three-hour layover in Buenos Aires, and Anthea had directed her to a boutique. There, Molly had bought another swimsuit, one far more flattering. It wasn’t a two-piece, but it received a snap chat thumbs-up from Anthea and Mary, and a telephone call from Greg that was one shrill wolf-whistle.

She studied herself carefully, taking one of the terry-cloth bathrobes provided by the hotel, slipping it on over her swimsuit.

“Well, whatever happens, happens,” she muttered and headed for the door, hearing Sherlock knock.


	11. Chapter 11

"What do you think of this one?"

"Is that Sherlock? Wearing _the_ hat?" Greg asked with a laugh, peering at the screen of Mary's laptop. She nodded, grinning.

"Goodness knows what Molly had to do to get him to wear it."

"She told me every time he complains or is rude, he has to wear the hat in a picture," John said, setting down their tea.

"How often has he had to wear it?" Greg asked.

"This is the first one," John replied.

"Second," Mary corrected, holding up her phone for them to see. On the screen, the Consulting Detective stood, arms folded, clearly sulking on the steps of Machu Piccu, the ear hat atop his shaggy curls. A llama stood near him in the shot, the caption beneath it read:

" _Forgot to send these two: Sherlock wasn't keen on making friends, and was rather rude to the tour-guide"_

Mary's phone lit up again with another message

" _He has since learned to be nicer."_

Another picture appeared, Sherlock clearly furious, wiping spit from his cheek as the llama buggered out of the shot.

The trio roared with laughter, Greg clutching his sides and Rosie, startled by the noise, began to cry.

"Oh-oh, sorry sweetie," John bounced her a little, soothing her.

"Did you get Molly's letter?" Mary asked.

"About her extending her trip? Yeah," Greg nodded. "I'm happy for her. Surprised she can take so much of Sherlock in one-sitting, but hey, if she's not bothered. Good for her. She deserves a nice, long holiday."

"Where are they headed next, anyway?" John asked, he gave Rosamund her teething ring and she cooed happily.

"Sherlock didn't say," Mary shrugged. "He's being a bit mysterious."

"Hope it's nothing illegal…"

"He wouldn't do anything dangerous…not with Molly," John shook his head firmly.

* * *

 **Pyramid of** **Menkaure** **Giza, Egypt - 4AM**

"Sherlock, are you sure it's safe to be up here?"

"Of course it's safe, it's one of the most solid structures in the world," he replied, boosting her up the granite stones. He scrambled up past her and then bent, reaching to help her up. "Hurry, sunrise is only forty-five minutes away, it will take us almost that time to reach the top."

"I know the stones are safe, is it _legal_ to be up here?" she huffed, grasping his wrists as he helped her up.

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to be deported!"

"Nonsense. Mycroft knows we're up here."

"He does?"

"Of course." A pause. "He's told me to get down several times, but that's beside the point."

The flood lights around the base of the Menkaure and Khufu were shutting off. In the distance, the lights of Cairo and Giza twinkled in the dusky morning, the air was still deliciously cool.

"Anyway, it wouldn't be fun if it weren't allowed."

"Is that your philosophy?" Molly asked with a laugh.

"I don't have philosophies," he grunted as she tugged him up. "You can't fool me anyway, Molly Hooper, this is just the sort of ridiculous, romantic thing you'd dream of doing…like…oof- kissing under the Eiffel Tower…or eating Chicken Kiev in Kiev."

"This was _your_ idea!"

"Are you sorry I suggested it?"

By now they'd reached the top of Menkaure. The view of the Giza Necropolis at their feet, to the southwest was Cairo, and in the east, the sky was turning a violet hue. She sighed, sitting down.

"No." her eyes sparkled, and she had the sort of peaceful look Sherlock had come to admire during their travels. It was the moment when she'd see something she'd clearly never thought she'd see in her lifetime.

From Peru, they traveled to Rio de Janeiro. They discovered they were just in time for Carnival, which Sherlock refused to comment on. Whatever happened, Mary was assured by Molly to have the full story when they returned. The only hint she'd received was a package that came by air-express and it held a handful of confetti, the heel of a shoe, three colorful feathers and two shot glasses along with a note from Molly that read: _"Keep these safe for me!"_

Molly was content to let Sherlock take the lead in her holiday. They rarely stayed longer than two or three days in any one spot. Long enough to taste the culture and enjoy the country before moving on. From Brazil they traveled to Morocco, Algeria, Libya and finally Egypt. In Algeria and Libya, they'd stayed in chain hotels, Molly insisting that if they were traveling like madmen, they at least deserved a hotel with hot water and proper mattresses. In Egypt, Sherlock made her let him choose where to stay. He'd led her through the streets of Cairo, through the markets to a dilapidated looking building that looked as if it hadn't been inhabited since Napoleon came to Egpyt. She balked immediately.

"Are you insane?!"

"Not at all." He said. He squeezed her hand, seeing her apprehension. "Do you trust me?"

"At the moment?" He gave her a look and she sighed heavily. "Fine."

Inside, an Englishman sat behind the counter, a single bulb was suspended overhead. He looked up, pushing his dusty spectacles further up his nose.

"Oh!" the man's jowls twitched, and he clapped his hands. Despite the heat of the day, he wore tweed trousers, a waistcoat and a paisley bowtie and Molly thought he was the most charming sort of man she'd ever seen. He greeted Sherlock as if he were an old friend, and kissed Molly's hand as if she were a princess. He had no computer or any sort of electronic device, save for the land-line telephone that looked as if it came from a bomb-shelter. His ledger was a massive book, and he showed them all sorts of people who'd stayed in his hotel, mostly college students who were eager to get into the field of archeology and needed a cheap room.

"Clean, affordable, that's my motto!" the man tapped the hand-painted sign hanging by the door. "I'm afraid we're rather full of Uni students at the moment, but I expect you were hoping to share anyway, so I'll put you down for a corner," he shuffled over to the ledger, making a mark in the book and Molly turned to Sherlock, confused.

"A corner?"

A corner turned out to be exactly that. Uni students, all hoping to be the next modern-day Flinders Petrie, crowded into the several large rooms upstairs. Clean, straw pallets were spread out on the floor, backpacks and shoes at the foot of each one, sleeping bags unrolled in any bare space to be had. Everyone had their own spot, and Molly and Sherlock were in the corner. It wasn't as bad as she thought. Whatever apprehension she had was soon gone. That first night the group of them had all tramped down to the food stalls, around the city and then back up to the hotel to enjoy the drinks some of the students had sneaked in. Molly was glad to see Sherlock was enjoying himself. The students reminded her of a time in her life when she was young enough to believe anything was possible and she had nothing to lose and the world to gain. She felt old and young, all at once. She dreamed of bittersweet times when she was petrified and excited, and felt that same stirring inside as Sherlock woke her at half-past three, whispering for her to come with him, that he had a surprise for her.

That was how she came to be sitting on the top of Menkaure, sharing her water bottle with Sherlock as they waited for the sunrise. The sky was a rosy gold, the air shimmering as the sun broke the horizon and Molly gave a delighted gasp.

"I want a picture," she declared, tears pricking her eyes. He'd been obediently taking pictures of the view already, knowing she'd be too overcome to think of taking shots. He turned to the sunrise, lifting the camera again. "No silly, of us,"

"Oh." They never took pictures together, safe for that time in Rio…but he was hoping she'd lose those pictures.

The sun was climbing higher, the light was a warm golden glow around them as she took the camera, directing it towards them.

"Smile," she urged him, partly out of habit (what else does one say when there's a camera pointed at you?). Instead, he turned, pressing her cheek just as she clicked the shutter. She turned, more than a little surprised to face him. He had the look of 'I don't know why I did that, but I know why I did that, but let's not talk about it yet, but let's do talk about it' and Molly was half-tempted to lean over and finish what he bloody-well started except he spoke first.

"Would you like to go to Uttar Pradesh?"

* * *

**John and Mary's flat, London, England**

"John, get the door-"

"I heard it," he called back, already reaching for the handle. Mycroft stood on the doorstep, Anthea on his arm, tapping on her blackberry.

"Good afternoon Doctor Watson, Mrs. Watson," Anthea looked up, hearing him speak and smiled at John, stepping inside.

"Afternoon,"

"Uh…come in…what um- what's going on?"

"Can't a friend stop in and say 'hi'?"

"I'm-um-" John frowned, confused. "I'm sorry- wait, _are_ we friends?"

"It's a phrase," Anthea said from her place on the sofa.

"Have you checked your email?" Mycroft asked suddenly.

"God I haven't been around a Holmes in ages, I forget you change subject at drop of a hat-" John shook his head. "Sorry- uh, no, Mary, have you checked the mail yet?"

"I'm about to,"

"Do let me know when you receive Doctor Hooper's usual trip update." Burning with curiosity, Mary thrust Rosie at the elder Holmes, hurrying to the computer. Mycroft, flummoxed at the child, held her at arms-length. "Anthea-"

"Oh no, dear, you hold her," she replied sweetly. Rosamund gurgled, shoving the zwieback cracker into her mouth, dropping soggy crumbs onto Mycroft's Ede & Ravenscroft tailored suit. John folded his arms, clearly enjoying the moment. It wasn't until Mary gasped, a hand over her just-beginning-to-show belly, that he turned.

"What- what is it?"

"It's from Sherlock," her face aglow at the screen. John bent, eyes widening in shock at the photo of Sherlock clearly kissing Molly Hooper's sun-reddened cheek, the caption beneath: _Meet us in India. Address to follow. Tell John to pack his fancy clothes._

"What's it mean?" John asked. Mary was already on her feet, heading to the bedroom to pack.

"It means-" Mycroft passed off Rosie to Anthea as she passed by him. He wiped his sleeves off before reaching into his inner-coat pocket. "We are going to India. Here are your tickets." John looked at Mycroft's outstretched hand, the first-class tickets for three just out of reach.

"Uh- well…I mean-"

"I'd follow the advice of the email as well, these parties in India tend to lean toward the excessively fancy. Mrs. Watson may be more comfortable in her condition donning a more traditional sari."

"What party?"

"Oh shush John, hurry and pack!" Mary called from the room.

"Right, um…India," he nodded. Anthea handed Rosamund back to him, tickling the baby's cheeks. Her fond smile was not lost on Mycroft, and he logged that away, to inquire about later. For now they bid the Watson's goodbye, promising to send a car to bring them to the airport in a few hours.

John stood in the doorway, staring after the black car, Rosie making noises in his arms. "Good grief," he murmured, not entirely sure of what was going through Sherlock's head, not daring to think of what the Consulting Detective was bringing them all into.


	12. Chapter 12

**The Hilton, Uttar Predesh**

“I’m sorry, we appear to be full,” the receptionist spoke through his nose, looking at John and Mary and Rosie as if they’d crawled out from under a rock. John and Mary glanced sidelong at each other. This one must have just been promoted from intern.

“We _have_ a room,” John insisted, holding the confirmation print-out.

“Are you certain you have the right hotel? There is a Holiday Inn Express not far from here-“ heels across the marble floor echoed across the foyer, the receptionist straightened visibly, touching his tie.

“Mrs. Holmes, so good to see you again, I trust your accommodations are to your liking?”

“Oh yes, indeed,” she nodded. “But I’d be much more comfortable if you had Mr. Holmes’ friends settled in their suite as well.”

The ginger receptionist paled considerably. “I- um…Mr. Holmes?”

Mary leaned over, looking to Anthea. “He said they were booked,” she said, bouncing Rosamund on her hip.

Anthea turned to the receptionist frowning. “The Watson’s are guests of Mr. Mycroft Holmes,” the man seemed to tremble at this.

“Oh, yes, um, you are right, as always, um, a room, king size bed and-“

“I think you’ll find it was a suite,” Anthea interrupted.

“Uh- well, oh, yes, yes you are correct.” Trembling hands attacked the keyboard and then two room keys were handed over. “Please, don’t hesitate to call if you need anything, anything at all,” he stuttered, palms sweating.

“Hm,” Anthea raised an eyebrow before turning to John and Mary. “Now, Doctor Watson, of course accommodations have been made for your daughter, there will be a trusted source to mind her during tonight’s festivities, I have arranged for you to both to meet with her this afternoon.” Anthea lead them the elevator as she spoke, not even bothering to look after the bags; the receptionist snapped his fingers for a bellboy to fetch a luggage cart.

In short order, the hotel manager was leading them to their upgraded suite, apologizing profusely. Rosie babbled happily in her mother’s arms. John and Mary exchanged gleeful smiles as the staff fairly tripped over themselves to see that everything was perfect for “Mr. Holmes’ guests”. Anthea winked at the Watson’s as she left, the hotel Manager following after her, still trying to smooth over any misunderstanding.

“I still don’t know what we’re doing here,” John said, stretching out on the bed in the master bedroom. Mary set Rosie in the playpen that had been brought up, having thoroughly inspected that it was clean (one can never be too careful).

“Just relax,” she crawled up beside him, sighing deeply.

“What if it’s a case?” he mumbled sleepily. Her finger came over his mouth.

“Shh. Just go to sleep. Babies and wife want to sleep.” His hand came over her belly, soothing circles under her shirt, over her skin.

“Sherlock knows our flight got in.”

“And he’ll know that as I am five months pregnant I’m irritated and tired.” 

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

John’s phone buzzed and he rolled his eyes.

“Told you so,” he grumbled, squinting at the bright screen. Mary groaned, weary. Incessant pounding on the door made them both sit up quickly.

“Sherlock!”

John beat Mary to the door, yanking it open as Sherlock raised his hand again to knock. Molly stood beside him, out of breath from hurrying.

“Sorry, I told him to let you rest,” she started but Sherlock pushed past John, patting the good doctor on his shoulder.

“Rest? What do they need rest for? They slept on the plane, obviously.” Sherlock strode into the suite, smiling at Mary who offered her cheek in greeting. He pressed it before turning to the playpen where Rosie was standing. The door shut behind Molly, and she set her bags down as Sherlock lowered the gate of the pen.

“I see her motor skills have improved over the past four months,” he picked her up swinging her above his head, beaming as she squealed in delight.

“She remembers you,” Mary nodded.

“Aren’t you going to say hello to Molly?” Sherlock queried, allowing Rosamund to chew on his fingers.

“Don’t rush her,” Molly said but Mary was already turning to her, hugging her tightly. “You look _beautiful_ ,” she gushed, hands cradling Mary’s belly. “Ohh, is it a boy or a girl? Do you know yet?”

“Boy,” John said, leaning over beside Mary and Molly laughed, drawing him close.

“Ohhhh, I missed you both.”

“We missed you too,”

“Yes, yes, we all missed everyone; can we get down to business?” Sherlock interrupted them. “I expect John is wondering why I extended an invitation to the both of you, as well as Mycroft and Anthea to join Molly and I on our holiday.” Mary, biting her lip, squeezed John’s hand, trying to hide her smile. Molly seemed to share her smile. “As you know, there are few we regard as family, and as such, we wanted you here.” John looked from the women to Sherlock, frowning.

“For…what?” Sherlock rocked on his heels, almost apprehensive. He looked at Molly, as if asking her permission and she nodded.

“There’s been a murder, John-“

Mary let loose a string of curses, (Molly was sure there was some foreign words thrown in). Sherlock frowned.

“Was that wrong?” he looked at Molly who seemed just as confused.

“We uh, were expecting something less…usual,” John said with a shrug. “But that’s fine, it’s been ages since we’ve had a good case, so come on, what’s going on, who was killed?”

“Sanjeev Bassi.”

“The polo player?” John frowned.

“Mm. His father is quite famous here, breeding race horses, pureblood Arabians, a lineage can be traced back down several hundred years.”

Molly stepped forward, lifting the shopping bags she’d set by the door earlier.

“He hated the fact that Sanjeev didn’t follow in his footsteps,” she said. From her bags she pulled out files, audio tapes and photographs, laying them out on the coffee table. Mary, interest piqued, came to sit by her, shifting through the paperwork.

“Mr. Bassi is extremely old fashioned, arranged marriage for his son, had his entire life arranged. When Sanjeev decided he didn’t want to breed horses, he’d rather play sport, Bassi was furious, very public altercation between the two of them.”

“What about his wife?” John tapped a photograph of a beautiful young woman. “This is who Sanjeev was married to?”

Sherlock shook his head in response.

“Never married. They were engaged. Her name is Lalitamohana Goswami, but Sanjeev kept delaying and delaying as his career took him further from home, until finally, this past spring he broke it off entirely, now that his career was firmly established around the world.” Mary was studying the picture of Lalitamohana, frowning.  
“What do we know about her?” she asked. 

“Not much. Traditional family, very wealthy,” Sherlock replied. “She has a large dowry, it would have been a healthy match for both families. Her family sort of bid her dowry out, she’s very sought after.”

“Mr. Bassi was the one they approved of, then,” Mary finished. Sherlock nodded in response. “How did she feel about Sanjeev?”

“I don’t think she felt one way or the other about him,” Molly shrugged. “She wasn’t given the choice to accept or refuse, the parents made the choice for them.”

John studied the picture of the young woman. She was very beautiful, dark eyes and smooth skin. Her choice of dress was traditional, or at least it appeared to be. Perhaps she wasn’t as traditional as her parents either.

“But Sanjeev broke it off, any reason why? He’s not as traditional as his father, did he not approve of her?” John asked.

“He didn’t want an arranged marriage,” Sherlock answered. “Hence the delay for so long. He hoped the Goswami’s would get fed up with the constant delays and break it off.”

“Did they disapprove of Sanjeev’s career like his father?” Mary asked.

“They seemed comfortable with it, not thrilled, but not as offended as Mr. Bassi,” Molly answered.

Setting the files aside, John sat back, lacing his fingers together.

“So where do we come in? Why are we here? If Mr. Bassi is concerned about a scandal, why hire an English detective?” Sherlock looked smug.

“I _am_ the world’ only Consulting Detective.” Molly rolled her eyes, turning to Watson.

“Lalitamohana’s family is very political, she’s got at least three who are based in England as MPs, Mr. Bassi is an extremely influential man, and he’s greatly respected. Each hold very prominent positions here and often correspond with royalty from around the world. There are rumors that someone, either Bassi or Goswami does not approve the match and aimed to kill both Sanjeev and Lalitamohana.”

“They’ve already succeeded in one death,” Sherlock said, tapping the photograph of Sanjeev’s body (polo club between his temples). “An attempt was made on Lalitamohana a week ago. I was called upon yesterday to look into the case. Tonight there is a ball held in her parents honor, naturally, with all the extra guests, they have reason to be suspicious. As the Goswami’s are political, it would only be natural that Mycroft and Anthea are here, his security detail is looking after Lalitamohana. Between the four of us, we should be able to track down her attacker and stop the second attempt.”

“Have you seen the guest list?” John asked, holding up the stapled sheets of paper. “There must be over five hundred people here!”

“Hmm. All the more reason for us to be extra careful. And just as well there’s four of us.” 

“We’ll leave you two to sort out the details,” Mary said. “I still need a dress for tonight, so Molly and I are going shopping.” She grabbed the pathologist’s hand, tugging her towards the door. “John, you have Rosie till I get back!”

“Yep,” he kissed his wife goodbye before turning back to the papers spread out over the coffee table.

* * *

Anthea met Molly and Mary in the hallway.

“Didn’t think I’d let you go shopping without me, did you?” she asked, and Mary was pleased to see a teasing smile gracing the PA’s face.

“Mycroft being difficult?”

“Actually, he gave me time off,” Anthea beamed.

“Our rooms aren’t bugged are they?” Mary asked, suddenly realizing Anthea’s timing, meeting them in the hall was rather exacting.

“Only the living room, sorry,” Anthea shrugged. Mary rolled her eyes.

“Could be worse,” Molly said. “You could have a very petulant consulting detective insisting on sharing a suite for the case.”

“As if you mind,” Anthea hit the button for the lift, smirking. Molly didn’t answer, but her blush was telling.

**Four boutique’s later…**

“So, tell me,” Mary wriggled into another dress, already making a face at it. “How’s Sherlock been?”

“What do you mean?” Molly frowned at the zipper, which was refusing to budge. “This one is no good Mary; you’re not so little any more, why not just wear a sari?”

“I suppose,” she sighed. Anthea smiled knowingly and hurried off to find something spectacular for Mrs. Watson. “You know what I mean,” she said, once the PA was gone. “How are ‘things’?”

“Things?” Molly tried to scoff. “I- w-well I mean- things are fine, wonderful, really, he’s lovely- not- I mean he’s been especially lovely since last year, since he got back, really, well not- I mean after he swore off getting high but-“

“Ugh,” Mary rolled her eyes. “Molly, he _kissed_ you!”

“Oh, well, I mean, I’d turned my head at the last minute so I’m sure he didn’t mean to kiss me as long as he did-“

“Wait-wait-wait, I’m talking about the picture he sent us, with the invitation to join you two in India,” Mary said, and narrowed her eyes, a suspecting smile growing. “He kissed you? Full on, lips and all?” Molly flushed red, realizing her error.

“Oh, uh, well I mean- like I said, I turned my head, so I’m sure it was just a coincidence that-“

“Sherlock Holmes doesn’t believe in coincidences, something about the ‘universe rarely being so lazy’,” Mary waved her hand. “The thing is how do we get him to kiss you again?”

“What?!” Molly gasped. “No! I mean-“

“Don’t you want to kiss him again?” Anthea returned, pushing all three of them into the family-size changing room with an armful of saris.

“Of course I do but-”

“Well then-“

“You need something smashing,” Anthea said, helping Mary into one of the colorful frocks. “Something he isn’t expecting,” both turned to the PA, confused. “What? We are talking about Sherlock making a proper move, aren’t we?”

“Well, hold on, what if he doesn’t want to?!” Molly protested.

“Oh of course he does- not this color, I look like an aubergine, God,” Mary wrinkled her nose at the dress. 

“He’s afraid to do anything definite because of what happened to you,” Anthea said briskly, unwinding another frock for Mary. “Mycroft was the same way.”

“He was? I mean, Sherlock, he is?” Molly echoed.

“Of course,” Mary said. “He doesn’t want to hurt you,”

“Hurt me?” Molly was confused.

“He doesn’t want to go too fast, considering…” Anthea waved her hand. Molly was surprised. Suddenly shy, she folded her arms over herself. “It’s rather insightful of him, really, and he’s not wrong to take things slow, but it seems like you wouldn’t mind a step or two in the right direction.”

“I- I don’t even know if he’d want me after what happened,” Molly said. “I- my feelings, which have always been pretty obvious regarding him, they haven’t changed I just…I don’t-“ she dropped her hands limply to her sides. “Why would he want me after everything?”

“Because you’re still you,” Anthea said firmly.

“But- I’m not- I’m not who I was,” tears pricked Molly’s eyes. The PA stopped helping Mary, moving to take Molly’s hands.

“You’re right, you’re not,” she squeezed her fingers. “You are stronger than you were before, these things tend to do that to us, but they don’t change who we truly are, and you, Molly Hooper, still wear your silly sweaters, and you leave all your laundry in the dryer all week and pack the most ridiculous things for lunch. You’ve always been strong, Molly, and Sherlock’s always admired that, I think what happened to you simply made you prove it to yourself.” Anthea smiled warmly at her then. “If you love him, don’t think that this tarnishes you, or makes you less-worthy of him. If anything, it means he has to work twice as hard to earn you, and you are worth every effort, don’t doubt that.” Sniffling, Molly’s mouth pulled downward as she tried to stifle her tears.

“Hey, hey,” Mary stepped down off the little stool in front of the mirror. “Come on,” squeezing Molly’s shoulder, she smiled brightly. “You’re okay, so what do you say we find something that put’s The World’s Only Consulting Detective’s jaw on the floor tonight?”

Lifting her head, Molly smiled through her tears, her face aglow.

“Yes,” she nodded, laughing a little. “Hell, what have I got to lose?”


	13. Chapter 13

**The Hilton, John and Mary's suite**

"What's that?" John looked at the velvet box Sherlock placed between them on the table.

"It's a ring, Molly's ring, well, I hope it will be her's, if she wants it." John plucked up the box, opening it.

"You are planning on proposing!" John accused. He studied the ring for a moment before nodding his approval, shutting the box and handing it back to Sherlock.

"The sapphire seemed a better choice than standard diamonds," Sherlock seemed to almost preen at his choice in engagement rings. "Platinum band, the inscription was nothing-"

"Wait-woah- what inscription?" John began to smile. "You did something as sentimental as inscribe something on the inside?!"  
"It was more for Molly's sake than mine, she goes in for that sort of thing, you know that."

"Lemme see it," John held out his hand and Sherlock rolled his eyes, handing it back to him. Carefully, John removed the ring from the box, turning it over to read the inside of the band. "A scripture?" he asked, baffled.

"Yes. Molly would appreciate the reference to her father's favorite scripture, and it is an appropriate verse, I expect most would call it 'pretty'. The Song of Solomon is known for its poetic verse." John handed the ring back to Sherlock, wisely refraining from teasing him as he sorely wanted to.

"When are you going to propose?"

"After the case, obviously,"

"That long?" John asked, surprised. "Unless you've already solved-" his expression faded to a frown. "Have you?"

"Of course I have-"

"Oh for cripes sake-"

"It was obvious as soon as I went through the dumpster over at-"

"If you wanted us here, we would have come; there wasn't any need to go about hiding the truth from us!"

"Yes but Molly would have known!" Sherlock snapped, tucking the box away. "It had to be a reason believable for all."

"How were you going to get us here if you weren't hired for the case?"

"Lying, obviously. This just happened to be a good excuse. And anyway I did need your help when I first wrote to you. It just so happens that I solved it last night."

"And you haven't told anyone?! Don't you think the police should know?"

"Shush!" Sherlock snapped, already tucking the box away in his pocket. The door opened only a moment later, Mary and Molly weighed down with shopping bags. "I trust the trip was a success?" Sherlock asked as Molly kicked the door shut.

"Suppose so," she shrugged. "When is the party?"

"Quarter to eight, we should be downstairs a little after eight, slip in among the other guests."

The door opened for a second time, Anthea carting a garment bag over her shoulder.

"Men out," she said, an older woman followed Anthea inside. "Women only," Sherlock and John found themselves forcibly shoved out by an elderly Hindi woman, speaking rapidly in Urdu. They nearly ran into another group of women, no less than ten, all bearing make-up bags. They pushed past John and Sherlock, noisily greeting everyone else within.

"Wait- what about Rosie?" John called.

"Don't worry, Laki is here," Anthea said. Through the door John could see the elderly woman picking up Rosamund, smiling happily at the baby. "See you at eight-" the door shut before John had a chance to ask any more.

"Come along, Doctor Watson," both men turned to see Mycroft down the hall. "We may as well take the time to go over the evidence once more before we get dressed."

"We don't have to wear traditional do we?" John asked, hurrying down the hall with Sherlock.

"Most definitely."

* * *

Molly was a little overwhelmed by the amount of people in the suite, but Anthea and Mary plied her with two glasses of champagne and little hors d'oeuvres they ordered up. Before Molly knew it all three of them were being pampered, and Molly found she rather liked it: a lovely woman was doing their nails, another woman was putting up her hair. The same for Mary and Anthea, the others were painting their hands and feet in intricate designs with Mehndi. Anthea spoke flawless Urdu, whatever she said made the woman attending Mary giggle and nod.

"What did you tell her?" Mary asked, baffled at her reaction.

"I told her to put your husband's initials somewhere in the pattern. I'm having Mycroft's. He'll have a time finding them."

Molly laughed as Mary suddenly blushed red and giggled like a teenager.

"What about you?" the woman painting her feet asked. "What is your husband's name?"

"Oh I don't-" Anthea interrupted Molly, speaking in Urdu, so none but the others could understand. The woman nodded, smiling and bent over her work.

"What did you tell her?" Molly asked.

"Nothing, nothing," Anthea waved her free hand. "Do you like the colors she's using?" Molly bent to look at her feet, the Mehndi ink was alternating between inky black and shimmering honey gold.

"It's beautiful," Molly said and the woman at her feet smiled up from her work. "It's absolutely beautiful."

* * *

**Eight o' clock sharp**

"So you do wear something other than bespoke suits," John said, coming to stand beside Mycroft.

"As always your wit is stinging, Doctor Watson."

"I can make it sting if you want,"

"Don't start, you two," Mary was coming out of the suite. She smoothed her sari, beaming with pride. The rich red and sea-blue silks shimmered and billowed as she walked. Sherlock nudged John, who was openly gawking his wife. She smiled, turning around for him.

"The traditional sari suits you, Mrs. Watson," Mycroft complimented as John took her hands, kissing her.

"Thank you Mycroft, I wish I could say the same for you." Sherlock and Mycroft both exchanged weary looks. Anthea was next to appear, and Mycroft complimented her appropriately. Her costume was keeping in tradition with vibrant colors, peacock chiffon draping over the orange brocaded silk.

"I expect you've told the Mehndi artist my initials."

"Yes, and it's up to you to find them."

"Oh yes!" Mary remembered, bracelets tinkling as she turned her hands over. "They painted your initials on me, John."

"Why?"

"It's actually a wedding tradition, but they made the exception for us, since we aren't Hindi," Anthea explained.

"Sentiment, dear brother?" Sherlock asked, chuckling with glee.

"It's to do with sex," Mycroft sniffed. John and Mary both glanced between the brothers, smothering their laughter.

"What's to do with sex?"

They all turned at the sound of Molly in the doorway. No one said anything, only turned their heads to Sherlock. Eyes round as saucers, Sherlock seemed to be having trouble keeping his mouth shut. John had begun to smile, looking to Molly, bouncing on his heels.

"Most appropriate," Mycroft nodding approvingly. "Wouldn't you say, Sherlock?"

"What? Oh. Yes. Most…uhm…yes…nice…beautiful…hands…brea-uh…design" That seemed all the Consulting Detective could manage. Sensing an awkward moment, Mary took John's arm.

"Let's go get a cab for us," she said, winking at Molly in passing. Anthea dragged Mycroft off as well, reminding him of some phone call he had to make.

"So?" Molly turned for him, smiling, once they were alone. "What do you think?" He managed to collect himself, circling her. He admired the embroidery on the bodice, the billowing silk and gossamer. If someone were to walk by her, they might think she was a bride, her bright pink sari was perfectly suited to her, and Sherlock found himself genuinely smiling with pride at her.

"It suits you," he said and paused as she let out a rather girlish giggle. "Are you drunk?"

"No. I did have champagne though. You look like you could use a glass." She spun once more, admiring the bead-work on her skirt, the rustling of the beads and the little tinkling bells on the straps of her sandals made wonderful sounds with every step she took.

"I don't drink during cases." he held out his hands and she placed hers in them. Turning her palms over, he studied the designs. He was surprised to see over the creases in her palms his name was written in the elegant script. His gaze softened, and gently, smoothing the hardened ink with his fingertips, he traced his name over her palm.

"What?" she asked, wondering what he was staring so intently at. "Oh, the words. Anthea said they always write something, but she wouldn't tell me what." He studied her, quickly deducing that either Anthea or Mary (or both) told the Mehndi artist to write his name there. "You read Hindi, what's it say?" she asked. He looked up from her hands, meeting her wide-eyed gaze and found himself almost speechless once more.

"It's-"

"Come on Sherlock!" John stood at the end of the hallways. "We'll be more than fashionably late if you keep staring at her!"

Gathering up her skirts in her free hand, Molly took Sherlock's arm, tugging him along.

In the pocket of his trousers, he could feel the engagement ring, and he cursed his stomach for the sickening flop it made. It was only supposed to do that when he didn't have a case, when he was bored. Lately, it'd been doing that every time he looked at Molly. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not.

* * *

**The Bassi's Residence**

The party was in full swing when they arrived, Mycroft and Anthea remained arm-in-arm, circling the room for familiar politicians. Sherlock left Molly, motioning for John to follow him.

"Mr. Bassi is working with Lalitamohana. He killed Sanjeev and is forcing her to take the fall, which will, inevitably happen. However, Bassi does not know that I am aware of his precarious position."

"Why drag Lalitamohana in on this though?"

"He wanted to have an affair with her, and he needed his son out of the way. Sanjeev realized his father's attraction to his fiancée and had originally planned to take her with him to England, to protect her. When he came to collect her, Bassi was waiting for him. He's blackmailing her to keep her in India."

"Does her family know?"

"Naturally," Sherlock glanced around the room, party-goers toasting the host, dancers packed the floor, trays of sweetmeats and rare delicacies carried by waiters circulated among the guests. "If word got out Bassi was blackmailing their daughter, that she was supposedly involved in a murder and an affair, the Goswami's would be ruined. They are moving to England, and leaving Lalitamohana behind with the Bassi's, who were supposed to be her in-laws. The Goswami's name is clean, and Bassi get's Lalitamohana."

"This is pretty ethical of you, Sherlock."

"Hm. Well, the murder was interesting at any rate. Molly wanted me to take the case."

"Mm. So what do we do?"

"Expose Bassi, of course."

"We can't do that here, what if he does something rash, like shoot her?"

"In public? Do be serious, John."

"I mean after, you tit,"

"Mycroft is seeing to Lalitamohana. She'll be going with her family, it will be announced tonight. After the ball, we'll meet with Bassi, show him the evidence and he'll be arrested." He bounced on his heels, fairly gleeful.

"So what are we doing here now, if we can't do anything until after?"

"We're here for the dancing, obviously," Sherlock replied and headed across the room, finding Molly. He swept her out onto the floor amid the other dancers.

"You've got this all sorted, haven't you?" Molly asked. "I mean the case, you've known who did it since yesterday."

"Yes," he nodded, scanning the crowd.

"So…what happens after the case, after everything is finished?"

"Whatever you wish," he shrugged.

"Well…Mary's due date is coming up, I'd like to be home in time for the birth," Molly admitted.

"You're ready to go home?"

"I- I don't know," she watched their feet for a moment before forcing herself to look up at him. That proved difficult as well, so she looked just over his shoulder. "I miss home, I miss Baker Street, and Toby the dog and cat, and Mrs. Hudson, I even…I even miss work…well…my work. I expect in time I might even start to miss Barts."

"Don't you?" he asked, trying to keep them both moving along with the crowd of dancers, despite the fact that he felt his heart tremble at her claiming to miss Baker street, that she called it _her home_.

"I miss what it used to mean to me, but…I think it could be a little like that again. The place doesn't reflect what happened to me, same as what happened to me doesn't make up who I am on the whole." He smiled down at her, proud.

"That's the first time you've said that and meant it."

"I suppose I do," she shrugged. "It's funny how travel makes you realize things about yourself." She looked around at the crowds. "I guess it helps that I don't know anyone on this holiday, no one but you. Everyone we've met, I've just been Molly Hooper to them, nothing else." He began to say:

"You're hardly nothing," but something caught the corner of his eye and he turned, seeing the Goswami's make their way up the stairway, Bassi close behind. That of itself was troublesome enough (someone must have tipped Bassi off) the real trouble was not realized until he saw who waited at the top of the stairs for them, and suddenly the whole situation made sense.

"The Woman," he muttered. Molly turned her head.

"What?"

Taking Molly by the arm, Sherlock led her off the dance floor, signaling Mary and John.

"Stay with Mary, do not move, Mary-" he glanced at her rather pregnant belly. "You'd better stay here too, but if there's a gun to be had around here, I'd rather you shot it," Mary took Molly by the hand, leading her off in search of a gun while Sherlock and John hurried to the back stairs.

"What do you think is going on?"

"I don't know, but the party's clearing up fast," Mary looked at the crowds, confused, but following the officers orders and clearing the building.  
"Do you think it's a bomb?"

"Probably they were told for their safety to clear the place, most likely Mycroft's doing, I don't see him around, must be upstairs."

"Hopefully," Molly added.

"You two, come on," a policeman saw them and motioned for them to join the others filing outside.

"We've got to help John and Sherlock, especially if She's back," Mary said, hushed and Molly frowned.

"What, that woman?"

"Yes."

"I thought she was nice, Sherlock used to be taken with her, until she died…or didn't…" Molly was confused.

"She's only out to save herself," Mary said firmly. "Whatever she says, she works for herself. Unless something moves her otherwise, which is quite rare."

"She's an assassin?" Mary snorted, shaking her head.

"No, well…not totally. She'd rather keep her hands clean if she can, but she can be lethal."

"And…Sherlock fancies her?"

"No," Mary shook her head firmly. "Trust me, Molly, there's only one woman now who turns his head, and it is definitely not Irene Adler." Molly quirked the tiniest of smiles.

"Think she knows?"

"Oh, most definitely, hold on-" Mary let go of Molly's hand, approaching an officer. "Excuse me," she put on her most northern accent she could manage, and Molly had to fight not to choke on her laughter. "Wot's happening? Why are we bein' shoved out here? Sumfin happen upstairs?"

"I don't know, ma'am,"

"Well I can't stay forever outside, I'm pregnant, you know, oh!" she lurched forward and the policeman caught her. "Sorry, sorry, I'll just go sit, but hurry up and sort this, I'm freezin!" Mary reached for Molly who scurried to her side and they hurried along with the crowd until they were out of sight of the policeman. "Hurry," Mary said, cradling her belly, her free hand held a gun.

"Where'd you get that?" Molly gasped.

"The policeman," Mary replied with a wave of her hand. She led them around the building, keeping a look out. "Now, take the gun, you'll have to climb the fire escape around the back, and get back inside."

"What?! Me? No! I couldn't!"

"Yes you can, you have to!"

"Mary," suddenly Molly was small and shy again, the gun Mary had filched from the officer hung limply in her hands. "Mary I can't…how can I be of use? I'll- I'll lower the escape, I'll help you, I'll bloody push you, but Mary I can't shoot anyone."

Mary took a breath, stepping forward.

"Molly, I need you to go up there, okay? Listen to me, I would be up there now, I would gladly do this for you, but I cannot get up there, if I fell, and if I lived and this baby didn't…I can't do that, not to the baby, or to John, do you understand?" Slowly, Molly nodded. Cupping her pale face, Mary smoothed her skin, the Mehndi ink rough against her face. "You can do this, you are stronger than you think, Molly Hooper, and Sherlock Holmes needs you." She hugged her tight and then stepped back, moving her skirts out of the way. "I'll help you lower the escape, put the gun in your sash. You know how to disable the safety?" Clumsily, Molly turned the weapon over in her hands, trembling. Mary's hands covered hers. "Steady, pull that, hear the click? Good. Do it again for me. Don't release the magazine by mistake."

"Who- who do I shoot?" Molly asked quietly, trying to sound braver than she felt.

"No one, if you can help it," Mary answered, her voice was strong. "Only if you're in danger, or if Sherlock and John can't get away. Shoot to disable, not to kill, got it?" Her nod was determined, so Mary reached for the fire escape ladder. "Mind your skirts," glancing behind them, she boosted the pathologist up the ladder.

* * *

Slipping back inside the Bassi's palatial mansion, Molly slipped off her sandals, the bells would do her no favors if she were to sneak up on someone. She took a deep breath, removed the gun from her sash and started quietly down the hall on light feet. Keeping close to the wall, she paused, peering into the first doorway. That one was empty, so she went on, noticing a partway open set of double doors, a light shining out into the dark hallway.

" _Isn't it clever, Sherlock? All I needed was one investor and I ended up with two. These politicians are terribly easy…wouldn't you say Anthea? Although you should be applauded for keeping Mycroft as amused as you have-"_

That had to be the Woman. Molly shuddered to think what she would say to her, someone as confident as Irene Adler could tear her down so easily…couldn't she? Someone grunted, in pain and Molly took another step forward.

" _Of course, Sherlock, this could end very differently if you'd agree to come with me. Everyone goes free, and you and I can get away together."_

" _Did you plan all this?"_

" _Well…not_ _this_ _,"_

The Woman laughed, bright and cheerful. Molly was at the doorway now, peering in to see the Goswami's tied up, Bassi stood by the fireplace, smoking a cigar. Irene Adler leaned very casually against an arm chair. Anthea stood between John and Sherlock. What detained them, Molly couldn't see yet, but they kept their hands visible, their stance careful, as if ready to move if need be (Molly was sure they'd never put their hands above their heads, at least not for such a small group).

"I didn't plan on your being here, but it is a delightful surprise, and works to my favor."

"Unfortunately, you've got it wrong," Sherlock quipped. "I'm involved with someone else, so you see I'm afraid our holiday will be quite out of the question."

"Oh? Someone else? Who could possibly have caught your attention? She must be quite something."

"She is," John added and Irene raised an eyebrow.

"Oh! A vote of confidence from the good doctor, even I didn't have that!"

Molly shifted her position to see better into the room, glancing behind her to be sure no one else was in the hall.

"I think we should shoot them," Bassi spoke up at last, tapping his cigar on the mantle. "Your money has already been wired to you-" the sudden gunshot nearly elicited a scream from Molly, she ducked away from the door before she realized the shot came from within the room, and that the bloodstain on the mantle was from Bassi. John stepped past Irene, who let him; he bent, checking Bassi's pulse.

"Talking is tiresome, you see I have what I want, and the men here are listening to me now," Molly was at the doorway again, realizing the one who shot Bassi was a security guard. She counted three guards in the room, all of them armed. "So the question is, will you come with me?"

"No," Irene looked to one of the guards, nodding her head towards the door. Molly scooted back, barely breathing. The guard instead went across the room, taking something from the table.

"What if he shot her?"

"Mary," John breathed. "Sherlock-" Molly could see the guard held a tablet, on it was a CCTV feed of the crowds outside, Mary among them.

"You wouldn't though," the Consulting Detective said confidently. "You don't kill for sport, Irene."

"I do if it's to benefit me."

"What benefit would this give you?" Anthea spoke up.

"Hopefully enough to scare Sherlock into joining me. If not, I'll toddle off to my own devices, now that I've been paid."

"And continue blackmailing the Goswami's," John interrupted.

"Naturally, why spoil a good thing?" Irene paused, considering Sherlock. "You really do love that pathologist, don't you? What's her name? Molly?"

"Leave her out of this," Sherlock bit out.

"That's no fun, where is she? Is she like that Janine? The one who spread all those delicious rumors about you?" Irene stepped closer, her voice low. "Do you make her wear the hat too?"

Sherlock turned, his eyes like fire as he glared at The Woman.

"What bothers you more, Irene? That I only had a carnal attraction to you or that I _truly care_ for her?" Irene said nothing, quite surprised.

"Well, there you have it; I can shut up if I'm shocked enough. I can't tell if you're lying or not. I hope so, since I'm honest."

"That's a first," Sherlock quipped with a raised eyebrow.

"You don't love her," Irene said, quite sure of her statement. "That's why Magnussen's PA made all those claims about you, because you don't do relationships, you don't do 'boyfriend' and 'husband', all that rubbish. You're like me. It's easier to take what we like and when we're done, set it by the wayside. You'll do the same with her, same as you did with Janine."

"I didn't love Janine, she was for a case. I never slept with her."

"Hm," Irene quirked an eyebrow. "And I'm supposed to believe that a man who uses a woman for his personal gain can turn around and love a pathetic little thing like Molly Hooper?"

Molly trembled. A moment ago, she was just 'that pathologist'. She was a no-name to Irene Adler, but Molly realized that The Woman was playing dumb to coerce Sherlock into confessing something. What for? That seemed rather silly, really. It wouldn't benefit Irene, to be sure.

"I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand, and you're right, I don't do the roles of 'boyfriend' or 'husband', not yet. My Molly has not accorded me that honor yet." Sherlock replied.

Molly didn't know who was shocked more, her, or Irene.

"Now," Sherlock continued and Molly blinked, taking a step closer to the doorway. "I expect Mycroft's men to be here in, probably sixty seconds, thirty actually, but if you leave now, you may just get off with ten years instead of the twenty you so rightfully deserve." His voice dropped low and was terribly dark.

"So angry," Irene cooed. "Have I struck a nerve? Really, there's no need to be defensive, anyone who offed Moran had to have something up her sleeve. You tend to like the feisty ones. What's she got that I haven't? She must really do for you, hm? Twists your hair? Everyone knows you've got a sensitive scalp, what must she be like?"

Molly could take no more, getting to her feet, her hands still shaking, she disengaged the safety as Mary showed her before shoving her arm through the open doorway, firing towards the ceiling three times.

Everyone in the room ducked, a mirror was smashed and Irene looked afraid, though trying to maintain her cool.

"Miss Adler, we have to go now,"

"Don't be stupid!" she snapped at the guard.

"I'm afraid you'd better," Sherlock said, standing again. Molly peered through the door again.

' _Shoot to disable, not to kill'_

Mary's voice echoed in her head as she took aim, pulling the trigger. The vase next to Irene Adler's head exploded and The Woman actually jumped. Eyes wide, she looked at Sherlock and John, and then at the guards.

"I actually don't know that signal, but I'm fairly certain it was a warning shot," Sherlock said. Molly looked at the gun, frowning. Well, as far as shots went that one could have been worse.

Something tapped Molly on the arm and she wheeled around, startled until she realized it was Mycroft. Beside him stood fifteen armed men outfitted in Kevlar. Mycroft led her away, taking the gun from her as the men pushed into the room, shouting orders but Molly couldn't quite hear them. Mycroft led her down the hall, he actually put his arm around the pathologist.

"You're perfectly all right, you're all right, you did marvelously," Mycroft's voice was steady; his grip was firm but gentle around her waist, keeping her upright. It helped keep Molly from slipping into a panic attack. At some point she felt Anthea's arms encircle her, and Mycroft let go.

* * *

The room was cleared and Molly had managed to stand on her own two feet by the time Irene Adler came into view. The Woman caught sight of her right away.

"So that was you?" she asked, quite astonished. "Well, a crack-shot you're not, but it takes gumption to fire that thing,"

"I'm not as little as you think I am."

"I never thought you were," Irene answered smoothly. Despite the handcuffs, she leaned closer. "I'm afraid I'll be detained for a little while, I expect this is the last Sherlock will wish to see of me, so do us both a favor, mind he makes good on what he's carrying in his pocket, make him work for you. He should at least work for one of us. If it can't be me, it certainly should be you." The Woman winked at her before the officer pushed her forward, ushering her down the stairs and into the waiting car.

Profusely thanked by the Goswami's, and the reports filled, John and Mary hugged and kissed Molly, praising her, giggling over the terrible shots (they were terrible shots, really) and hugged her again, promising her that she'd done marvelously and she only proved how brave she was.

"Best wait for Sherlock," Anthea said when Molly asked when she could return to the hotel. "Just a precaution, besides, you don't speak Urdu, the cabbie won't understand you." Anthea left on Mycroft's arm, and Molly noticed that a gold band sat on her ring finger again, a ring Molly was sure had not been there at the start of the evening, nor even since she left England.

Sherlock grunted, rolling his shoulder to ease the pain, apparently there'd been a scuffle earlier. He came to stand beside her at the doorway.

"Cab's on its way," he said. She turned, looking up at him.

"So that was The Woman, was it?"

"Mm," he muttered.

"She seems…awful…and oddly nice."

"That's usually how she is."

"She could be your sister," Molly said suddenly and Sherlock looked at her, somewhat disturbed. "I mean because she doesn't…do emotions…more so than you and Mycroft."

"I think she does, actually," Sherlock said, looking down the street.

"So do you and Mycroft, come to think of it," Molly said with a smile. The police cars were long gone, as were the guests from the party.

"What did she say to you as she was leaving?"

"Nothing in particular," Molly shrugged. "Nothing that made sense, really."

Quiet again, and for a moment, neither knew what to say. Both knew what he'd said earlier about her, clearly his feelings went beyond friendship. Still, Molly half-believed that he was only pretending, to get a rise out of Irene Adler.

"I'm sorry, Molly," Sherlock spoke, interrupting her thoughts. She looked up from looking at her hands.

"Whatever for?"

"This isn't how I wanted tonight to go."

"Well…I mean…it could have gone worse, I don't know what I was expecting before it all happened."

"I don't think you thought you'd fire a gun," Sherlock answered, and then paused, thoughtful. "Did you actually aim for that vase?"

"I'd like to say yes, but…no…" Molly laughed. "I guess…well, I'd say I ought to have target practice, but I don't want to."

"You needn't if you don't want to, your shots weren't that terrible," Sherlock promised.

Molly gave him a look and he was sure she didn't believe him.

"Well, not absolutely terrible," he glanced around the sidewalk. "I certainly didn't plan on proposing to you like this, out here." Her features softened.

"You- you were going to propose?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "That's why John and Mary were here, after all, well, part of the reason. I didn't plan on the case going pear-shaped,"

"You want to marry me." She interrupted him and he looked at her.

"Yes of course I do." He met her gaze, surprised that she seemed shocked at his admission. "I know you aren't…ready for that sort of thing, so…I wanted to-" he paused then, unsure of how to explain. "I wanted to propose, but…not really, not the sense that as soon as I propose we must plan a wedding in six months or however long one plans for a wedding. I wanted…I want us to be exclusive, and- and however long it takes…whatever time you need…that's fine…I'll wait, but…to know that I could – that you and I could be-" he broke off then, unsure of how to go on.

"Yes,"

Her answer almost surprised him, if he wasn't so certain that her answer would have been yes anyway.

"Yes…you'll marry me?" he asked, just to clarify, because there was always the (very slim) chance he heard wrong.

"Yes."

"I'm afraid I'm going to kiss you now," he breathed.

"You'd better," she agreed and he bent, drawing her close. It was tender and sweet, albeit a little awkward because Sherlock didn't do all that much kissing, or he'd deleted what he knew about it. They parted, Sherlock still holding her close. "Will you take me home now?" she asked softly. "Home to Baker street, I mean."

"I shouldn't take you anywhere else," he murmured and kissed her just once more, deciding he quite liked the novelty of kissing Molly Hooper. He'd thought about it for quite some time, and now, having her permission, realized it was better than he'd hoped.


	14. Chapter 14

**Some Time Later…**

“Uncle Sherlock,” the Consulting Detective looked up from the beakers on the table to five year-old George. George was just chin-level with the table now. He had his father’s nose and right now it crinkled at the smell leaking from the uncorked bottle in Sherlock’s hand.

“Yes?”

“What’s that?” he rose on tiptoe, his hands boosting him up to see.

“Hands off the table when I’m holding sulfuric acid, you know the rules,” Sherlock cautioned. George obediently let go of the table and dragged a chair over beside him.

“Why do you need acid?”

“For an experiment.” It was a house rule, if Sherlock was using any type of acid, he was not allowed to fully explain the experiment, at least not until the children were in school. Sherlock didn’t particularly agree with it, but George was not his son, and John insisted, so he abided by the Watson’s requests.

“Uncle Sherlock?”

“Yes George?”

“Why is Aunt Molly so fat?” Both looked to the living room where Molly was helping Rosie pin up a picture she’d painted in school. Molly turned, and Sherlock found himself proudly admiring her protruding baby bump. Very soon now, he would be a father, and he was looking forward to it.

“She’s not fat, she’s pregnant,” Sherlock clarified.

“Why’s she pregnant?” George asked. “Does that mean there’s a baby in her tummy?”

“No, it means there is a baby in her uterus.”

“It looks like there’s a baby in her tummy.”

“But it isn’t,” Sherlock contradicted and George simply shrugged in response. Molly, having overheard the conversation, smiled across the room at her husband, her hands tracing lazy circles over her belly. Words could not convey the gladness Molly had when she learned she was pregnant.

Two years married, Sherlock Holmes supposed he was domesticated. Or at least as domestic as he could be. He and John still solved cases. He still performed experiments, and still played the violin at all hours when he couldn’t sleep. The one change in his life was Molly, or perhaps she was the one constant. She’d always been there, now she had a permanent place, and he was pleased that she had such a central place in his life. Yes, he loved her, though he probably didn’t say it as often as she liked. He did try, especially now that she was pregnant and her hormones made her prone to cry at anything from Toby the dog falling asleep beside Rosamund Watson to a commercial about mattresses. Married life was nothing that he expected it would be, and he was pleased. Molly was happy, truly happy, and very much herself again. There were still days she had anxiety attacks, days when she was depressed or afraid to enter the locker room at Barts. Those were the days Sherlock took her home to 221b and helped her through whatever it was she was dealing with. Her last therapy session was long past now; Doctor Bremen had proudly declared her quite ready to cope with whatever the world threw at her. Unsure, but believing him to never lie to her, Molly returned to work. Clutching the black opal, she walked all through the morgue and labs, and on her last day of work before her maternity leave, she walked through the locker room, Sherlock waiting at the doorway, watching her, quite proud of the progress she’d made.

Five years since she’d been kidnapped, two years since they were married, she was finally able to look at the room she’d been kidnapped from. She stood by her locker, finally finding the courage to open it. There wasn’t much inside, a sweater she’d thought she’d lost, a spare phone charger and a pair of sneakers. She found she wasn’t ready to bring any of it home yet so she shut the locker to leave it until another day. Sherlock held out his hand, smiling one of his rare, genuine smiles that were reserved especially for Molly. 

“Six months down, three to go,” he said and she smiled, excited. She thought often of how Sherlock had taken the news of his impending fatherhood. He’d fallen to his knees in the middle of 221b, pushing her blouse up and kissing her soft belly, his hands trembling. They had thought for some time that perhaps she couldn’t get pregnant (they’d done things the usual way and for a year and a half of their marriage, Molly fretted that their inability to conceive was her fault. Sherlock, not bearing to see her so distraught, endured test after test (apparently they were both healthy) until the doctors told them to simply keep on as they were and something was bound to happen. Happen it did and now both 221b and 221c were baby-proofed and waiting for the littlest Holmes to arrive.

Noting Molly’s weariness, Sherlock pulled off his gloves, setting them aside.

“Rosie, go and see Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said. “The ice cream truck will be here shortly and she always keeps change in the coffee tin in the cupboard. Bring George with you.” Needing no further incentive the children dropped what they were doing and hurried off. Slipping his arms around his wife’s waist, he pressed her back against his chest, feeling the baby kick against his palms.

“You are a little heavier than Mary was when she was pregnant with Rosamund.” He commented. Molly pinched him, hard and meaning and he jerked away, frowning. “Bit not good?”

“A whole lot of not good,” she said. “You’ll just have to make it up to me.” She turned in his arms, smiling almost mischievously and Sherlock found himself conjuring up all sorts of lovely ways she’d make him apologize.

There was a quick knock on the open door and they both turned to see Greg standing there.

“Hey,” he waved to them. “Sherlock, we need you down at Barts, you know that Ripper copycat? We’ve got another body.”

“Should I meet you at the morgue?” Molly asked, stepping out of her husband’s arms, she reached for her coat.

“Nope, you’re on leave,” Sherlock answered. He switched off the Bunsen burners, covering the rows of test-tubes with a cloth. “I’ll be back late,”

“But Sherloooooock,” Molly complained.

“Nope.”

“The pathologist on shift is an _idiot_ ,” she groaned. “He doesn’t even sew up the bodies neatly. He practically butchered poor Mr. Crenshaw’s skull cap.”

“Mr. Crenshaw was butchered himself,” Sherlock replied. “Stay here.” He slipped his arms through the sleeves of his coat. Molly pouted and he bent, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. “I’ll text you the details,” he said.

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Another kiss, and then he bent down to her belly. “You behave as well, your mother run off her feet with your constant kicking.” He kissed her stomach, feeling a fluttering as his unborn son shifted.

“Send pictures too,” Molly said, hands on her hips as he straightened. “If the exit wound is the same-“

“I will,” he promised.

“I love you.” She kissed him once more, and he fairly smiled.

“And I you.” Before he hurried out of 221b after Greg.

Life was, dare Sherlock say it, pleasant. Not much had changed in his day-to-day schedule, excepting that Molly was central in it, and he liked it that way. Two independent adults, who found that life was so very much better together. This was what John meant when he tried to explain marriage to Sherlock. He very smugly pointed out to any and all that the first two years were only the beginnings of the best years of their lives, and that it had all started when Molly stabbed a man.

“It came after that, actually,” Molly said. “After you rescued me.”

“My dear woman,” Sherlock scoffed. “You rescued yourself.” Molly felt warmth blossom in her chest and her face flush. It had taken a long time for her to see why she could be proud of herself. She was proud that she had protected herself, that she could look at herself now and be happy with who she saw.

“I rescued myself,” she murmured. He nodded in affirmation, pulling her close.


End file.
